THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PSYCH. 
LIBRARY 

BEQUEST 

OF 
ANITA  D.  S.  BLAKE 


LAD:    A   DOG 


( From  a  photograph  by  Lacy  Van  Wagenen) 


LAD:  A  DOG 


BY 


ALBERT  PAYSON  TERHUNE 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright  1919 
By  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


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EDUC.- 
PSYCH. 

LIBRARY 


GIFT 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


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T2T3 


MY    BOOK    IS    DEDICATED 
TO  THE   MEMORY   OF 


THOROUGHBRED  IN  BODY  AND   SOUL 


099 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  His  MATE i 

II.  "QUIET!" 26 

III.  A  MIRACLE  OP  Two 49 

IV.  His  LITTLE  SON 74 

V.  FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON 97 

VI.  LOST! 126 

VII.  THE  THROWBACK 156 

VIII.  THE  GOLD  HAT 180 

IX.  SPEAKING  OP  UTILITY 218 

X.  THE  KILLER 251 

XL  WOLP 297 

t  XII.  IN  THE  DAY  or  BATTLE       .      .      .      .321 

AFTERWORD 347 


LAD:    A  DOG 


LAD:    A  DOG 

CHAPTER  I 
HIS  MATE 

EDY  was  as  much  a  part  of  Lad's  everyday 
happiness  as  the  sunshine  itself.  She 
seemed  to  him  quite  as  perfect,  and  as 
gloriously  indispensable.  He  could  no  more  have 
imagined  a  Ladyless  life  than  a  sunless  life.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  suspect  that  Lady 
could  be  any  less  devoted  than  he — until  Knave 
came  to  The  Place. 

Lad  was  an  eighty-pound  collie,  thoroughbred  in 
spirit  as  well  as  in  blood.  He  had  the  benign  dig- 
nity that  was  a  heritage  from  endless  generations 
of  high-strain  ancestors.  He  had,  too,  the  gay 
courage  of  a  d'Artagnan,  and  an  uncanny  wisdom. 
Also — who  could  doubt  it,  after  a  look  into  his 
mournful  brown  eyes — he  had  a  Soul. 

His  shaggy  coat,  set  off  by  the  snowy  ruff  and 
chest,  was  like  orange-flecked  mahogany.  His  ab- 


2  LAD:    A  DOG 

surdly  tiny  forepaws — in  which  he  took  inordinate 
pride — were  silver  white. 

Three  years  earlier,  when  Lad  was  in  his  first 
prime  (before  the  mighty  chest  and  shoulders  had 
filled  out  and  the  tawny  coat  had  waxed  so  shaggy), 
Lady  had  been  brought  to  The  Place.  She  had 
been  brought  in  the  Master's  overcoat  pocket,  rolled 
up  into  a  fuzzy  gold-gray  ball  of  softness  no  bigger 
than  a  half -grown  kitten. 

The  Master  had  fished  the  month-old  puppy  out 
of  the  cavern  of  his  pocket  and  set  her  down, 
asprawl  and  shivering  and  squealing,  on  the  veranda 
floor.  Lad  had  walked  cautiously  across  the 
veranda,  sniffed  inquiry  at  the  blinking  pigmy  who 
gallantly  essayed  to  growl  defiance  up  at  the  huge 
welcomer — and  from  that  first  moment  he  had 
taken  her  under  his  protection. 

First  it  had  been  the  natural  impulse  of  the 
thoroughbred — brute  or  human — to  guard  the  help- 
less. Then,  as  the  shapeless  yellow  baby  grew  into 
a  slenderly  graceful  collie,  his  guardianship  changed 
to  stark  adoration.  He  was  Lady's  life  slave. 

And  she  bullied  him  unmercifully — bossed  the 
gentle  giant  in  a  shameful  manner,  crowding  him 
from  the  warmest  spot  by  the  fire,  brazenly  yet 
daintily  snatching  from  between  his  jaws  the 
choicest  bone  of  their  joint  dinner,  hectoring  her 
dignified  victim  into  lawn-romps  in  hot  weather 
when  he  would  far  rather  have  drowsed  under  the 
lakeside  trees. 


HIS  MATE  3 

Her  vagaries,  her  teasing,  her  occasional  little 
flurries  of  temper,  were  borne  by  Lad  not  meekly, 
but  joyously.  All  she  did  was,  in  his  eyes,  perfect. 
And  Lady  graciously  allowed  herself  to  be  idolized, 
for  she  was  marvelously  human  in  some  ways. 
Lad,  a  thoroughbred  descended  from  a  hundred 
generations  of  thoroughbreds,  was  less  human  and 
more  disinterested. 

Life  at  The  Place  was  wondrous  pleasant  for 
both  the  dogs.  There  were  thick  woods  to  roam 
in,  side  by  side;  there  were  squirrels  to  chase  and 
rabbits  to  trail.  (Yes,  and  if  the  squirrels  had 
played  fair  and  had  not  resorted  to  unsportsmanly 
tactics  by  climbing  trees  when  close  pressed,  there 
would  doubtless  have  been  squirrels  to  catch  as  well 
as  to  chase.  As  for  the  rabbits,  they  were  easier 
to  overtake.  And  Lady  got  the  lion's  share  of  all 
such  morsels.) 

There  was  the  ice-cool  lake  to  plunge  into  for 
a  swim  or  a  wallow,  after  a  run  in  the  dust  and 
July  heat.  There  was  a  deliciously  comfortable  old 
rug  in  front  of  the  living-room's  open  fire  whereon 
to  lie,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  on  the  nights  when 
the  wind  screamed  through  bare  trees  and  the  snow 
scratched  hungrily  at  the  panes. 

Best  of  all,  to  them  both,  there  were  the  Master 
and  the  Mistress;  especially  the  Mistress. 

Any  man  with  money  to  make  the  purchase  may 
become  a  dog's  owner.  But  no  man — spend  he 
ever  so  much  coin  and  food  and  tact  in  the  effort — 


4  LAD:    A  DOG 

may  become  a  dog's  Master  without  the  consent  of 
the  dog.  Do  you  get  the  difference?  And  he 
whom  a  dog  once  unreservedly  accepts  as  Master 
is  forever  that  dog's  God. 

To  both  Lad  and  Lady,  from  the  first,  the  man 
who  bought  them  was  not  the  mere  owner  but  the 
absolute  Master.  To  them  he  was  the  unquestioned 
lord  of  life  and  death,  the  hearer  and  answerer, 
the  Eternal  Law ;  his  the  voice  that  must  be  obeyed, 
whatever  the  command. 

From  earliest  puppyhood,  both  Lad  and  Lady 
had  been  brought  up  within  the  Law.  As  far  back 
as  they  could  remember,  they  had  known  and  obeyed 
The  Place's  simple  code. 

For  example:  All  animals  of  the  woods  might 
lawfully  be  chased;  but  the  Mistress'  prize  chickens 
and  the  other  little  folk  of  The  Place  must  be 
ignored  no  matter  how  hungry  or  how  playful 
a  collie  might  chance  to  be.  A  human,  walking 
openly  or  riding  down  the  drive  into  The  Place 
by  daylight,  must  not  be  barked  at  except  by  way 
of  friendly  announcement.  But  anyone  entering 
the  grounds  from  other  ingress  than  the  drive,  or 
anyone  walking  furtively  or  with  a  tramp  slouch, 
must  be  attacked  at  sight. 

Also,  the  interior  of  the  house  was  sacrosanct. 
It  was  a  place  for  perfect  behavior.  No  rug  must 
be  scratched,  nothing  gnawed  or  played  with.  In 
fact,  Lady's  one  whipping  had  followed  a  puppy- 
frolic  effort  of  hers  to  "worry"  the  huge  stuffed 


HIS  MATE  5 

bald  eagle  that  stood  on  a  papier-mache  stump  in 
the  Master's  study,  just  off  the  big  living-room 
where  the  fireplace  was. 

That  eagle,  shot  by  himself  as  it  raided  the  flock 
of  prize  chickens,  was  the  delight  of  the  Master's 
heart.  And  at  Lady's  attempt  on  it,  he  had  taught 
her  a  lesson  that  made  her  cringe  for  weeks  there- 
after at  bare  sight  of  the  dog-whip.  To  this  day, 
she  would  never  walk  past  the  eagle  without  making 
the  widest  possible  detour  around  it. 

But  that  punishment  had  been  suffered  while  she 
was  still  in  the  idiotic  days  of  puppyhood.  After 
she  was  grown,  Lady  would  no  more  have  thought 
of  tampering  with  the  eagle  or  with  anything  else 
in  the  house  than  it  would  occur  to  a  human  to 
stand  on  his  head  in  churchy 

Then,  early  one  spring,  came  Knave — a  showy, 
magnificent  collie;  red-gold  of  coat  save  for  a  black 
"saddle,"  and  with  alert  topaz  eyes. 

Knave  did  not  belong  to  the  Master,  but  to  a 
man  who,  going  to  Europe  for  a  month,  asked  him 
to  care  for  the  dog  in  his  absence.  The  Master, 
glad  to  have  so  beautiful  an  ornament  to  The  Place, 
had  willingly  consented.  He  was  rewarded  when, 
on  the  train  from  town,  an  admiring  crowd  of  com- 
muters flocked  to  the  baggage-car  to  stare  at  the 
splendid-looking  collie. 

The  only  dissenting  note  in  the  praise-chorus  was 
the  grouchy  old  baggage-man's. 

"Maybe   he's   a    thoroughbred,    like   you   say," 


6  LAD:    A  DOG 

drawled  the  old  fellow  to  the  Master,  "but  I 
never  yet  saw  a  yellow-eyed,  prick-eared  dog  I'd 
give  hell-room  to/' 

Knave  showed  his  scorn  for  such  silly  criticism 
by  a  cavernous  yawn. 

"Thoroughbred?"  grunted  the  baggage-man. 
'With  them  streaks  of  pinkish-yeller  on  the  roof 
of  his  mouth  ?  Ever  see  a  thoroughbred  that  didn't 
have  a  black  mouth-roof?" 

But  the  old  man's  slighting  words  were  ignored 
with  disdain  by  the  crowd  of  volunteer  dog-experts 
in  the  baggage-car.  In  time  the  Master  alighted 
at  his  station,  with  Knave  straining  joyously  at  the 
leash.  As  the  Master  reached  The  Place  and 
turned  into  the  drive,  both  Lad  and  Lady,  at  sound 
of  his  far-off  footsteps,  came  tearing  around  the 
side  of  the  house  to  greet  him. 

On  simultaneous  sight  and  scent  of  the  strange 
dog  frisking  along  at  his  side,  the  two  collies  paused 
in  their  madly  joyous  onrush.  Up  went  their  ruffs. 
Down  went  their  heads. 

Lady  flashed  forward  to  do  battle  with  the 
stranger  who  was  monopolizing  so  much  of  the 
Master's  attention.  Knave,  not  at  all  averse  to 
battle  (especially  with  a  smaller  dog),  braced  him- 
self and  then  moved  forward,  stiff -legged,  fangs 
bare. 

But  of  a  sudden  his  head  went  up;  his  stiff- 
poised  brush  broke  into  swift  wagging;  his  lips 
curled  down.  He  had  recognized  that  his  prospec- 


HIS  MATE  7 

tive  foe  was  not  of  his  own  sex.  (And  nowhere, 
except  among  humans,  does  a  full-grown  male  ill- 
treat  or  even  defend  himself  against  the  female 
of  his  species.) 

Lady,  noting  the  stranger's  sudden  friendliness, 
paused  irresolute  in  her  charge.  And  at  that  in- 
stant Lad  darted  past  her.  Full  at  Knave's  throat 
he  launched  himself. 

The  Master  rasped  out: 

"Down,  Lad!     Down!" 

Almost  in  midair  the  collie  arrested  his  onset — 
coming  to  earth  bristling,  furious  and  yet  with  no 
thought  but  to  obey.  Knave,  seeing  his  foe  was 
not  going  to  fight,  turned  once  more  toward  Lady. 

"Lad,"  ordered  the  Master,  pointing  toward 
Knave  and  speaking  with  quiet  intentness,  "let  him 
alone.  Understand?  Let  him  alone/' 

And  Lad  understood — even  as  years  of  training 
and  centuries  of  ancestry  had  taught  him  to  un- 
derstand every  spoken  wish  of  the  Master's.  He 
must  give  up  his  impulse  to  make  war  on  this 
intruder  whom  at  sight  he  hated.  It  was  the  Law ; 
and  from  the  Law  there  was  no  appeal. 

With  yearningly  helpless  rage  he  looked  on  while 
the  newcomer  was  installed  on  The  Place.  With 
a  wondering  sorrow  he  found  himself  forced  to 
share  the  Master's  and  Mistress'  caresses  with  this 
interloper.  With  growing  pain  he  submitted  to 
Knave's  gay  attentions  to  Lady,  and  to  Lady's 


8  LAD:    A  DOG 

evident  relish  of  the  guest's  companionship.  Gone 
were  the  peaceful  old  days  of  utter  contentment. 

Lady  had  always  regarded  Lad  as  her  own 
special  property — to  tease  and  to  boss  and  to  de- 
spoil of  choice  food-bits.  But  her  attitude  toward 
Knave  was  far  different.  She  coquetted,  human- 
fashion,  with  the  gold-and-black  dog — at  one  mo- 
ment affecting  to  scorn  him,  at  another  meeting 
his  advances  with  a  delighted  friendliness. 

She  never  presumed  to  boss  him  as  she  had 
always  bossed  Lad.  He  fascinated  her.  Without 
seeming  to  follow  him  about,  she  was  forever  at 
his  heels.  Lad,  cut  to  the  heart  at  her  sudden  in- 
difference toward  his  loyal  self,  tried  in  every  way 
his  simple  soul  could  devise  to  win  back  her  in- 
terest. He  essayed  clumsily  to  romp  with  her  as 
the  lithely  graceful  Knave  romped,  to  drive  rabbits 
for  her  on  their  woodland  rambles,  to  thrust  him- 
self, in  a  dozen  gentle  ways,  upon  her  attention. 

But  it  was  no  use.  Lady  scarcely  noticed  him. 
When  his  overtures  of  friendship  chanced  to  annoy 
her,  she  rewarded  them  with  a  snap  or  with  an 
impatient  growl.  And  ever  she  turned  to  the  all- 
conquering  Knave  in  a  keenness  of  attraction  that 
was  all  but  hypnotic. 

As  his  divinity's  total  loss  of  interest  in  himself 
grew  too  apparent  to  be  doubted,  Lad's  big  heart 
broke.  Being  only  a  do&  and  a  Grail-knight  in 
thought,  he  did  not  realize  that  Knave's  newness 
and  his  difference  from  anything  she  had  known, 


HIS  MATE  9 

jbrmed  a  large  part  of  Lady's  desire  for  the  visitor's 
favor;  nor  did  he  understand  that  such  interest 
must  wane  when  the  novelty  should  wear  off. 

All  Lad  knew  was  that  he  loved  her,  and  that  for 
the  sake  of  a  flashy  stranger  she  was  snubbing  him. 

As  the  Law  forbade  him  to  avenge  himself  in 
true  dog-fashion  by  fighting  for  his  Lady's  love, 
Lad  sadly  withdrew  from  the  unequal  contest,  too 
proud  to  compete  for  a  fickle  sweetheart.  No 
longer  did  he  try  to  join  in  the  others'  lawn-romps, 
but  lay  at  a  distance,  his  splendid  head  between  his 
snowy  little  forepaws,  his  brown  eyes  sick  with 
sorrow,  watching  their  gambols. 

Nor  did  he  thrust  his  undesired  presence  on  them 
during  their  woodland  rambles.  He  took  to  mop- 
ing, solitary,  infinitely  miserable.  Perhaps  there  is 
on  earth  something  unhappier  than  a  bitterly  ag- 
grieved dog.  But  no  one  has  ever  discovered  that 
elusive  something. 

Knave  from  the  first  had  shown  and  felt  for 
Lad  a  scornful  indifference.  Not  understanding 
the  Law,  he  had  set  down  the  older  collie's  refusal  to 
fight  as  a  sign  of  exemplary,  if  timorous  prudence, 
and  he  looked  down  upon  him  accordingly.  One 
day  Knave  came  home  from  the  morning  run 
through  the  forest  without  Lady.  Neither  the 
Master's  calls  nor  the  ear-ripping  blasts  of  his  dog- 
whistle  could  bring  her  back  to  The  Place. 
Whereat  Lad  arose  heavily  from  his  favorite  rest- 


10  LAD:    A  DOG 

ing-place  under  the  living-room  piano  and  cantered 
off  to  the  woods.  Nor  did  he  return. 

Several  hours  later  the  Master  went  to  the  woods 
to  investigate,  followed  by  the  rollicking  Knave.  At 
the  forest  edge  the  Master  shouted.  A  far-off 
bark  from  Lad  answered.  And  the  Master  made 
his  way  through  shoulder-deep  underbrush  in  the 
direction  of  the  sound. 

In  a  clearing  he  found  Lady,  her  left  forepaw 
caught  in  the  steel  jaws  of  a  fox-trap.  Lad  was 
standing  protectingly  above  her,  stooping  now  and 
then  to  lick  her  cruelly  pinched  foot  or  to  whine 
consolation  to  her;  then  snarling  in  fierce  hate  at 
a  score  of  crows  that  flapped  hopefully  in  the  tree- 
tops  above  the  victims 

The  Master  set  Lady  free,  and  Knave  frisked 
forward  right  joyously  to  greet  his  released  in- 
amorata. But  Lady  was  in  no  condition  to  play 
— then  nor  for  many  a  day  thereafter.  Her  fore- 
foot was  so  lacerated  and  swollen  that  she  was 
fain  to  hobble  awkwardly  on  three  legs  for  the 
next  fortnight. 

It  was  on  one  pantingly  hot  August  morning,  a 
tittle  later,  that  Lady  limped  into  the  house  in 
search  of  a  cool  spot  where  she  might  lie  and  lick 
her  throbbing  forefoot.  Lad  was  lying,  as  usual, 
under  the  piano  in  the  living-room.  His  tail 
thumped  shy  welcome  on  the  hardwood  floor  as 
die  passed,  but  she  would  not  stay  or  so  much  as 
notice  him. 


HIS  MATE  11 

On  she  limped,  into  the  Master's  study,  where 
an  open  window  sent  a  faint  breeze  through  the 
house.  Giving  the  stuffed  eagle  a  wide  berth,  Lady 
hobbled  to  the  window  and  made  as  though  to  lie 
down  just  beneath  it.  As  she  did  so,  two  things 
happened :  she  leaned  too  much  weight  on  the  sore 
foot,  and  the  pressure  wrung  from  her  an  involun- 
tary yelp  of  pain;  at  the  same  moment  a  cross- 
current of  air  from  the  other  side  of  the  house 
swept  through  the  living-room  and  blew  shut  the 
door  of  the  adjoining  study.  Lady  was. a  prisoner. 

Ordinarily  this  would  have  caused  her  no  ill-ease, 
for  the  open  window  was  only  thirty  inches  above 
the  floor,  and  the  drop  to  the  veranda  outside  was 
a  bare  three  feet.  It  would  have  been  the  simplest 
matter  in  the  world  for  her  to  jump  out,  had  she 
wearied  of  her  chance  captivity. 

But  to  undertake  the  jump  with  the  prospect  of 
landing  her  full  weight  and  impetus  on  a  forepaw 
that  was  horribly  sensitive  to  the  lightest  touch — 
this  was  an  exploit  beyond  the  sufferer's  will-power. 
So  Lady  resigned  herself  to  imprisonment.  She 
curled  herself  up  on  the  floor  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  eagle,  moaned  softly  and  lay  still. 

At  sound  of  her  first  yelp,  Lad  had  run  forward, 
whining  eager  sympathy.  But  the  closed  door 
blocked  his  way.  He  crouched,  wretched  and 
anxious,  before  it,  helpless  to  go  to  his  loved  one's 
assistance. 

Knave,  too,  loping  back  from  a  solitary  prowl 


13  LAD:    A  DOG 

of  the  woods,  seeking  Lady,  heard  the  yelp.  His 
prick-ears  located  the  sound  at  once.  Along  the 
veranda  he  trotted,  to  the  open  study  window. 
With  a  bound  he  had  cleared  the  sill  and  alighted 
inside  the  room. 

It  chanced  to  be  his  first  visit  to  the  study.  The 
door  was  usually  kept  shut,  that  drafts  might  not 
blow  the  Master's  desk-papers  about.  And  Knave 
felt,  at  best,  little  interest  in  exploring  the  interior 
of  houses.  He  was  an  outdoor  dog,  by  choice. 

He  advanced  now  toward  Lady,  his  tail  a-wag, 
his  head  on  one  side,  with  his  most  irresistible  air. 
Then,  as  he  came  forward  into  the  room,  he  saw 
the  eagle.  He  halted  in  wonder  at  sight  of  the 
enormous  white-crested  bird  with  its  six-foot  sweep 
of  pinion.  It  was  a  wholly  novel  spectacle  to 
Knave;  and  he  greeted  it  with  a  gruff  bark,  half 
of  fear,  half  of  bravado.  Quickly,  however,  his 
sense  of  smell  told  him  this  wide-winged  apparition 
was  no  living  thing.  And  ashamed  of  his  mo- 
mentary cowardice,  he  went  over  to  investigate  it. 

As  he  went,  Knave  cast  over  his  shoulder  a  look 
of  invitation  to  Lady  to  join  him  in  his  inspection. 
She  understood  the  invitation,  but  memory  of  that 
puppyhood  beating  made  her  recoil  from  accepting 
it.  Knave  saw  her  shrink  back,  and  he  realized 
with  a  thrill  that  she  was  actually  afraid  of  this 
lifeless  thing  which  could  harm  no  one.  With  due 
pride  in  showing  off  his  own  heroism  before  her, 


HIS  MATE  13 

and  with  the  scamp-dog's  innate  craving  to  destroy, 
he  sprang  growling  upon  the  eagle. 

Down  tumbled  the  papier-mache  stump.  Down 
crashed  the  huge  stuffed  bird  with  it ;  Knave's  white 
teeth  buried  deep  in  the  soft  feathers  of  its  breast. 

Lady,  horror-struck  at  this  sacrilege,  whimpered 
in  terror.  But  her  plaint  served  only  to  increase 
Knave's  zest  for  destruction. 

He  hurled  the  bird  to  the  floor,  pinned  it  down 
with  his  feet  and  at  one  jerk  tore  the  right  wing 
from  the  body.  Coughing  out  the  mouthful  of 
dusty  pinions,  he  dug  his  teeth  into  the  eagle's 
throat.  Again  bracing  himself  with  his  forelegs 
on  the  carcass,  he  gave  a  sharp  tug.  Head  and 
neck  came  away  in  his  mouth.  And  then  before 
he  could  drop  the  mouthful  and  return  to  the  work 
of  demolition,  he  heard  the  Master's  step. 

All  at  once,  now,  Knave  proved  he  was  less 
ignorant  of  the  Law — or,  at  least,  of  its  penalties 
— than  might  have  been  supposed  from  his  act  of 
vandalism.  In  sudden  panic  he  bolted  for  the 
window,  the  silvery  head  of  the  eagle  still,  unheeded, 
between  his  jaws.  With  a  vaulting  spring,  he  shot 
out  through  the  open  casement,  in  his  reckless 
eagerness  to  escape,  knocking  against  Lady's  in- 
jured leg  as  he  passed. 

He  did  not  pause  at  Lady's  scream  of  pain,  nor 
did  he  stop  until  he  reached  the  chicken-house. 
Crawling  under  this,  he  deposited  the  incriminating 
eagle-head  in  the  dark  recess.  Finding  no  pursuer, 


14  LAD:    A  DOG 

he  emerged  and  jogged  innocently  back  toward  the 
veranda. 

The  Master,  entering  the  house  and  walking 
across  the  living-room  toward  the  stairs,  heard 
Lady's  cry.  He  looked  around  for  her,  recogniz- 
ing from  the  sound  that  she  must  be  in  distress. 
His  eye  fell  on  Lad,  crouching  tense  and  eager  in 
front  of  the  shut  study  door. 

The  Master  opened  the  door  and  went  into  the 
study. 

At  the  first  step  inside  the  room  he  stopped, 
aghast.  There  lay  the  chewed  and  battered  frag- 
ments of  his  beloved  eagle.  And  there,  in  one 
corner,  frightened,  with  guilt  writ  plain  all  over 
her,  cowered  Lady.  Men  have  been  "legally"  done 
to  death  on  far  lighter  evidence  than  encompassed 
her. 

The  Master  was  thunderstruck.  For  more  than 
two  years  Lady  had  had  the  free  run  of  the  house. 
And  this  was  her  first  sin — at  that,  a  sin  unworthy 
any  well-bred  dog  that  has  graduated  from  puppy- 
hood  and  from  milk-teeth.  He  would  not  have 
believed  it.  He  could  not  have  believed  it.  Yet 
here  was  the  hideous  evidence,  scattered  all  over 
the  floor. 

The  door  was  shut,  but  the  window  stood  wide. 
Through  the  window,  doubtless,  she  had  gotten  into 
the  room.  And  he  had  surprised  her  at  her  vandal- 
work  before  she  could  escape  by  the  same  opening. 

The  Master  was  a  just  man — as  humans  go;  but 


HIS  MATE  15 

this  was  a  crime  the  most  maudlin  dog-spoiler  could 
not  have  condoned.  The  eagle,  moreover,  had  been 
the  pride  of  his  heart — as  perhaps  I  have  said. 
Without  a  word,  he  walked  to  the  wall  and  took 
down  a  braided  dog-whip,  dust-covered  from  long 
disuse. 

Lady  knew  what  was  coming.  Being  a  thorough- 
bred, she  did  not  try  to  run,  nor  did  she  roll  for 
mercy.  She  cowered,  moveless,  nose  to  floor, 
awaiting  her  doom. 

Back  swished  the  lash.  Down  it  came,  whistling 
as  a  man  whistles  whose  teeth  are  broken.  Across 
Lady's  slender  flanks  it  smote,  with  the  full  force 
of  a  strong  driving-arm.  Lady  quivered  all  over. 
But  she  made  no  sound.  She  who  would  whimper 
at  a  chance  touch  to  her  sore  foot,  was  mute  under 
human  punishment. 

But  Lad  was  not  mute.  As  the  Master's  arm 
swung  back  for  a  second  blow,  he  heard,  just  be- 
hind, a  low,  throaty  growl  that  held  all  the  menace 
of  ten  thousand  wordy  threats. 

He  wheeled  about.  Lad  was  close  at  his  heels, 
fangs  bared,  eyes  red,  head  lowered,  tawny  body 
taut  in  every  sinew. 

The  Master  blinked  at  him,  incredulous.  Here 
was  something  infinitely  more  unbelievable  than 
Lady's  supposed  destruction  of  the  eagle.  The  Im- 
possible had  come  to  pass. 

For,  know  well,  a  dog  does  not  growl  at  its 
Master.  At  its  owner,  perhaps;  at  its  Master, 


16  LAD:    A  DOG 

never.  As  soon  would  a  devout  priest  blaspheme 
his  deity. 

Nor  does  a  dog  approach  anything  or  anybody, 
growling  and  with  lowered  head,  unless  intent  on 
battle.  Have  no  fear  when  a  dog  barks  or  even 
growls  at  you,  so  long  as  his  head  is  erect.  But 
when  he  growls  and  lowers  his  head — then  look 
out.  It  means  but  one  thing. 

The  Master  had  been  the  Master — the  sublime, 
blindly  revered  and  worshiped  Master — for  all  the 
blameless  years  of  Lad's  life.  And  now,  growling, 
head  down,  the  dog  was  threatening  him. 

It  was  the  supreme  misery,  the  crowning  hell, 
of  Lad's  career.  For  the  first  time,  two  overpow- 
ering loves  fought  with  each  other  in  his  Galahad 
soul.  And  the  love  for  poor,  unjustly  blamed,  Lady 
hurled  down  the  superlove  for  the  Master. 

In  baring  teeth  upon  his  lord,  the  collie  well 
knew  what  he  was  incurring.  But  he  did  not  flinch. 
Understanding  that  swift  death  might  well  be  his 
portion,  he  stood  his  ground. 

(Is  there  greater  love?  Humans — sighing 
swains,  vow-laden  suitors — can  any  of  you  match 
it?  I  think  not.  Not  even  the  much-lauded 
Antonys.  They  throw  away  only  the  mere  world 
of  earthly  credit,  for  love.) 

The  Master's  jaw  set.  He  was  well-nigh  as 
unhappy  as  the  dog.  For  he  grasped  the  situation, 
and  he  was  man  enough  to  honor  Lad's  proffered 
sacrifice.  Yet  it  must  be  punished,  and  punished  in- 


HIS  MATE  17 

stantly — as  any  dog-master  will  testify.  Let  a  dog 
once  growl  or  show  his  teeth  in  menace  at  his 
Master,  and  if  the  rebellion  be  not  put  down  in 
drastic  fashion,  the  Master  ceases  forever  to  be 
Master  and  degenerates  to  mere  owner.  His  mys- 
terious power  over  his  dog  is  gone  for  all  time. 

Turning  his  back  on  Lady,  the  Master  whirled 
his  dog-whip  in  air.  Lad  saw  the  lash  'coming 
down.  He  did  not  flinch.  He  did  not  cower.  The 
growl  ceased.  The  orange-tawny  collie  stood  erect. 
Down  came  the  braided  whiplash  on  Lad's  shoul- 
ders— again  over  his  loins,  and  yet  again  and  again. 

Without  moving — head  up,  dark  tender  eyes  un- 
winking— the  hero-dog  took  the  scourging.  When 
it  was  over,  he  waited  only  to  see  the  Master  throw 
the  dog-whip  fiercely  into  a  corner  of  the  study. 
Then,  knowing  Lady  was  safe,  Lad  walked  ma- 
jestically back  to  his  "cave"  under  the  piano,  and 
with  a  long,  quivering  sigh  he  lay  down. 

His  spirit  was  sick  and  crushed  within  him.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  thoroughbred  life  he  had  been 
struck.  For  he  was  one  of  those  not  wholly  rare 
dogs  to  whom  a  sharp  word  of  reproof  is  more 
effective  than  a  beating — to  whom  a  blow  is  not  a 
pain,  but  a  damning  and  overwhelming  ignominy. 
Had  a  human,  other  than  the  Master,  presumed  to 
strike  him,  the  assailant  must  have  fought  for  life. 

Through  the  numbness  of  Lad's  grief,  bit  by  bit, 
began  to  smolder  and  glow  a  deathless  hate  for 
Knave,  the  cause  of  Lady's  humiliation.  Lad  had 


18  LAD:    A  DOG 

known  what  passed  behind  that  closed  study  door 
as  well  as  though  he  had  seen.  For  ears  and  scent 
serve  a  true  collie  quite  as  usefully  as  do  mere 
eyes. 

The  Master  was  little  happier  than  was  his  fa- 
vorite dog.  For  he  loved  Lad  as  he  would  have 
loved  a  human  son.  Though  Lad  did  not  realize  it, 
the  Master  had  "let  off"  Lady  from  the  rest  of  her 
beating,  in  order  not  to  increase  her  champion's 
grief.  He  simply  ordered  her  out  of  the  study. 

And  as  she  limped  away,  the  Master  tried  to  re- 
kindle his  own  indignation  and  deaden  his  sense  of 
remorse  by  gathering  together  the  strewn  frag- 
ments of  the  eagle.  It  occurred  to  him  that  though 
the  bird  was  destroyed,  he  might  yet  have  its  fierce- 
eyed  silvery  head  mounted  on  a  board,  as  a  minor 
trophy. 

But  he  could  not  find  the  head. 

Search  the  study  as  he  would,  he  could  not  find 
it.  He  remembered  distinctly  that  Lady  had  been 
panting  as  she  slunk  out  of  the  room.  And  dogs 
that  are  carrying  things  in  their  mouths  cannot  pant. 
She  had  not  taken  the  head  away  with  her.  The 
absence  of  the  head  only  deepened  the  whole  annoy- 
ing domestic  mystery.  He  gave  up  trying  to  solve 
any  of  the  puzzle — from  Lady's  incredible  vandal- 
ism to  this  newest  turn  of  the  affair. 

Not  until  two  days  later  could  Lad  bring  him- 
self to  risk  a  meeting  with  Lady,  the  cause  and 
the  witness  of  his  beating.  Then,  yearning  for  a 


HIS  MATE  19 

sight  of  her  and  for  even  her  grudged  recognition 
of  his  presence,  after  his  forty-eight  hours  of  isola- 
tion, he  sallied  forth  from  the  house  in  search 
of  her. 

He  traced  her  to  the  cool  shade  of  a  lilac  clump 
near  the  outbuildings.  There,  having  with  one 
paw  dug  a  little  pit  in  the  cool  earth,  she  was 
curled  up  asleep  under  the  bushes.  Stretched  out 
beside  her  was  Knave. 

Lad's  spine  bristled  at  sight  of  his  foe.  But  ignor- 
ing him,  he  moved  over  to  Lady  and  touched  her 
nose  with  his  own  in  timid  caress.  She  opened  one 
eye,  blinked  drowsily  and  went  to  sleep  again^\ 

But  Lad's  coming  had  awakened  Knave.  Much 
refreshed  by  his  nap,  he  woke  in  playful  mood. 
He  tried  to  induce  Lady  to  romp  with  him,  but 
she  preferred  to  doze.  So,  casting  about  in  his 
shallow  mind  for  something  to  play  with,  Knave 
chanced  to  remember  the  prize  he  had  hidden  be- 
neath the  chicken-house. 

Away  he  ambled,  returning  presently  with  the 
eagle's  head  between  his  teeth.  As  he  ran,  he 
tossed  it  aloft,  catching  it  as  it  fell — a  pretty  trick 
he  had  long  since  learned  with  a  tennis-ball. 

Lad,  who  had  lain  down  as  near  to  sleepily  scorn- 
ful Lady  as  he  dared,  looked  up  and  saw  him  ap- 
proach. He  saw,  too,  with  what  Knave  was  play- 
ing; and  as  he  saw,  he  went  quite  mad.  Here 
was  the  thing  that  had  caused  Lady's  interrupted 
punishment  and  his  own  black  disgrace.  Knave 


«0  LAD:    A  DOG 

was  exploiting  it  with  manifest  and  brazen  delight. 

For  the  second  time  in  his  life — and  for  the 
second  time  in  three  days — Lad  broke  the  law.  He 
forgot,  in  a  trice,  the  command  "Let  him  alone!" 
And  noiseless,  terrible,  he  flew  at  the  gamboling 
Knave. 

Knave  was  aware  of  the  attack,  barely  in  time  to 
drop  the  eagle's  head  and  spring  forward  to  meet 
his  antagonist.  He  was  three  years  Lad's  junior 
and  was  perhaps  five  pounds  heavier.  Moreover, 
constant  exercise  had  kept  him  in  steel-and-whale- 
bone  condition;  while  lonely  brooding  at  home  had 
begun  of  late  to  soften  Lad's  tough  sinews. 

Knave  was  mildly  surprised  that  the  dog  he  had 
looked  on  as  a  dullard  and  a  poltroon  should  have 
developed  a  flash  of  spirit.  But  he  was  not  at  all 
unwilling  to  wage  a  combat  whose  victory  must 
make  him  shine  with  redoubled  glory  in  Lady's 
eyes. 

Like  two  furry  whirlwinds  the  collies  spun  for- 
ward toward  each  other.  They  met,  upreared  and 
snarled,  slashing  wolf -like  for  the  throat,  clawing 
madly  to  retain  balance.  Then  down  they  went, 
rolling  in  a  right  unloving  embrace,  snapping,  tear- 
ing, growling. 

Lad  drove  straight  for  the  throat.  A  half-hand- 
ful of  Knave's  golden  ruff  came  away  in  his  jaws. 
For  except  at  the  exact  center,  a  collie's  throat  is 
protected  by  a  tangle  of  hair  as  effective  against  as- 
sault as  were  Andrew  Jackson's  cotton-bale  breast- 


HIS  MATE  21 

works  at  New  Orleans.  And  Lad  had  missed  the 
exact  center. 

Over  and  over  they  rolled.  They  regained  their 
footing  and  reared  again.  Lad's  saber-shaped  tusk 
ripped  a  furrow  in  Knave's  satiny  forehead;  and 
Knave's  half  deflected  slash  in  return  set  bleeding 
the  big  vein  at  the  top  of  Lad's  left  ear. 

Lady  was  wide  awake  long  before  this.  Stand- 
ing immovable,  yet  wildly  excited — after  the  age- 
old  fashion  of  the  female  brute  for  whom  males 
battle  and  who  knows  she  is  to  be  the  winner's 
prize — she  watched  every  turn  of  the  fight. 

Up  once  more,  the  dogs  clashed,  chest  to  chest. 
Knave,  with  an  instinctive  throwback  to  his  wolf 
forebears  of  five  hundred  years  earlier,  dived  for 
Lad's  forelegs  with  the  hope  of  breaking  one  of 
them  between  his  foaming  jaws. 

He  missed  the  hold  by  a  fraction  of  an  inch. 
The  skin  alone  was  torn.  And  down  over  the  little 
white  forepaw — one  of  the  forepaws  that  Lad  was 
wont  to  lick  for  an  hour  a  day  to  keep  them  snowy 
— ran  a  trickle  of  blood. 

That  miss  was  £  costly  error  for  Knave.  For 
Lad's  teeth  sought  and  found  his  left  shoulder,  and 
sank  deep  therein.  Knave  twisted  and  wheeled 
with  lightning  speed  and  with  all  his  strength. 
Yet  had  not  his  gold-hued  ruff  choked  Lad  and 
pressed  stranglingly  against  his  nostrils,  all  the 
heavier  dog's  struggles  would  not  have  set  him  free. 

As  it  was,  Lad,  gasping  for  breath  enough  to  fill 


22  LAD:    A  DOG 

his  lungs,  relaxed  his  grip  ever  so  slightly.  And 
in  that  fraction  of  a  second  Knave  tore  free,  leav- 
ing a  mouthful  of  hair  and  skin  in  his  enemy's  jaws. 

In  the  same  wrench  that  liberated  him — and  as 
the  relieved  tension  sent  Lad  stumbling  forward — 
Knave  instinctively  saw  his  chance  and  took  it. 
Again  heredity  came  to  his  aid,  for  he  tried  a 
manceuver  known  only  to  wolves  and  to  collies. 
Flashing  above  his  stumbling  foe's  head,  Knave 
seized  Lad  from  behind,  just  below  the  base  of 
the  skull.  And  holding  him  thus  helpless,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  grit  and  grind  his  tight-clenched  teeth  in 
the  slow,  relentless  motion  that  must  soon  or  late 
eat  down  to  and  sever  the  spinal  cord. 

Lad,  even  as  he  thrashed  frantically  about,  felt 
there  was  no  escape.  He  was  well-nigh  as  power- 
less against  a  strong  opponent  in  this  position  as  is 
a  puppy  that  is  held  up  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck. 

Without  a  sound,  but  still  struggling  as  best  he 
might,  he  awaited  his  fate.  No  longer  was  he 
growling  or  snarling. 

His  patient,  bloodshot  eyes  sought  wistfully  for 
Lady.  And  they  did  not  find  her. 

For  even  as  they  sought  her,  a  novel  element 
entered  into  the  battle.  Lady,  hitherto  awaiting 
with  true  feminine  meekness  the  outcome  of  the 
scrimmage,  saw  her  old  flame's  terrible  plight,  under 
the  grinding  jaws.  And,  proving  herself  false  to 
all  canons  of  ancestry — moved  by  some  impulse 
she  did  not  try  to  resist — she  jumped  forward. 


HIS  MATE  23 

Forgetting  the  pain  in  her  swollen  foot,  she  nipped 
Knave  sharply  in  the  hind  leg.  Then,  as  if  abashed 
by  her  un feminine  behavior,  she  drew  back,  in 
shame. 

But  the  work  was  done. 

Through  the  red  war  lust  Knave  dimly  realized 
that  he  was  attacked  from  behind — perhaps  that  his 
new  opponent  stood  an  excellent  chance  of  gaining 
upon  him  such  a  death-hold  as  he  himself  now  held. 

He  loosed  his  grip  and  whizzed  about,  frothing 
and  snapping,  to  face  the  danger.  Before  Knave 
had  half  completed  his  lightning  whirl,  Lad  had  him 
by  the  side  of  the  throat. 

It  was  no  death-grip,  this.  Yet  it  was  not  only 
acutely  painful,  but  it  held  its  victim  quite  as  power- 
less as  he  had  just  now  held  Lad.  Bearing  down 
with  all  his  weight  and  setting  his  white  little  front 
teeth  and  his  yellowing  tusks  firmly  in  their  hold, 
Lad  gradually  shoved  Knave's  head  sideways  to 
the  ground  and  held  it  there. 

The  result  on  Knave's  activities  was  much  the 
same  as  is  obtained  by  sitting  on  the  head  of  a  kick- 
ing horse  that  has  fallen.  Unable  to  wrench 
loose,  helpless  to  counter,  in  keen  agony  from  the 
pinching  of  the  tender  throat-skin  beneath  the 
masses  of  ruff,  Knave  lost  his  nerve.  And  he  forth- 
with justified  those  yellowish  streaks  in  his  mouth- 
roof  whereof  the  baggage-man  had  spoken. 

He  made  the  air  vibrate  with  his  abject  howls  of 
pain  and  fear.  He  was  caught.  He  could  not  get 


24  LAD:    A  DOG 

away.  Lad  was  hurting  him  horribly.  Wherefore 
he  ki-yi-ed  as  might  any  gutter  cur  whose  tail  is 
stepped  upon. 

Presently,  beyond  the  fight  haze,  Lad  saw  a 
shadow  in  front  of  him — a  shadow  that  resolved 
itself  in  the  settling  dust,  as  the  Master.  And  Lad 
came  to  himself. 

He  loosed  his  hold  on  Knave's  throat,  and  stood 
up,  groggily.  Knave,  still  yelping,  tucked  his  tail 
between  his  legs  and  fled  for  his  life — out  of  The 
Place,  out  of  your  story. 

Slowly,  stumblingly,  but  without  a  waver  of  hesi- 
tation, Lad  went  up  to  the  Master.  He  was  gasp- 
ing for  breath,  and  he  was  weak  from  fearful  exer- 
tion and  from  loss  of  blood.  Up  to  the  Master  he 
went — straight  up  to  him. 

And  not  until  he  was  a  scant  two  yards  away 
did  he  see  that  the  Master  held  something  in  his 
hand — that  abominable,  mischief -making  eagle's 
head,  which  he  had  just  picked  up!  Probably  the 
dog-whip  was  in  the  other  hand.  It  did  not  matter 
much.  Lad  was  ready  for  this  final  degradation. 
He  would  not  try  to  dodge  it,  he  the  double  breaker 
of  laws. 

Then — the  Master  was  kneeling  beside  him.  The 
kind  hand  was  caressing  the  dog's  dizzy  head,  the 
dear  voice — a  queer  break  in  it — was  saying  re- 
morsefully: 

"Oh  Lad!     Laddie!     I'm  so  sorry.     So  sorry! 


HIS  MATE  25 

You're — your're  more  of  a  man  than  I  am,  old 
friend.  I'll  make  it  up  to  you,  somehow!" 

And  now  besides  the  loved  hand,  there  was  an- 
other touch,  even  more  precious — a  warmly  caress- 
ing little  pink  tongue  that  licked  his  bleeding 
foreleg. 

Lady — timidly,  adoringly — was  trying  to  stanch 
her  hero's  wounds. 

"Lady,  I  apologize  to  you  too,"  went  on  the  fool- 
ish Master.  "I'm  sorry,  girl." 

Lady  was  too  busy  soothing  the  hurts  of  her 
newly  discovered  mate  to  understand.  But  Lad 
understood,  Lad  always  understood, 


CHAPTER  II 
"QUIET" 

TO  Lad  the  real  world  was  bounded  by  The 
Place.     Outside,  there  were  a  certain  num- 
ber of  miles  of  land  and  there  were  an  un- 
certain  number  of   people.      But  the  miles   were 
uninspiring,  except  for  a  cross-country  tramp  with 
the   Master.      And   the   people   were    foolish   and 
strange    folk    who    either    stared    at    him — which 
always  annoyed   Lad — or  else  tried  to  pat  him; 
which  he  hated.    But  The  Place  was— The  Place. 

Always,  he  had  lived  on  The  Place.  He  felt  he 
owned  it.  It  was  assuredly  his  to  enjoy,  to  guard, 
to  patrol  from  high  road  to  lake.  It  was  his  world. 

The  denizens  of  every  world  must  have  at  least 
one  deity  to  worship.  Lad  had  one:  the  Master. 
Indeed,  he  had  two:  the  Master  and  the  Mistress. 
And  because  the  dog  was  strong  of  soul  and  chival- 
ric,  withal,  and  because  the  Mistress  was  altogether 
lovable,  Lad  placed  her  altar  even  above  the 
Master's.  Which  was  wholly  as  it  should  have 
been. 

There  were  other  people  at  The  Place — people 
to  whom  a  dog  must  be  courteous,  as  becomes  a 

26 


"QUIET"  27 

thoroughbred,  and  whose  caresses  he  must  accept. 
Very  often,  there  were  guests,  too.  And  from 
puppyhood,  Lad  had  been  taught  the  sacredness  of 
the  Guest  Law.  Civilly,  he  would  endure  the  pet- 
tings  of  these  visiting  outlanders.  Gravely,  he 
would  shake  hands  with  them,  on  request.  He 
would  even  permit  them  to  paw  him  or  haul  him 
about,  if  they  were  of  the  obnoxious,  dog-mauling 
breed.  But  the  moment  politeness  would  permit, 
he  always  withdrew,  very  quietly,  from  their  reach 
and,  if  possible,  from  their  sight  as  well. 

Of  all  the  dogs  on  The  Place,  big  Lad  alone 
had  free  run  of  the  house,  by  day  and  by  night. 

He  slept  in  a  "cave"  under  the  piano.  He  even 
had  access  to  the  sacred  dining-room,  at  mealtimes 
— where  always  he  lay  to  the  left  of  the  Master's 
chair. 

With  the  Master,  he  would  willingly  unbend  for 
a  romp  at  any  or  all  times.  At  the  Mistress*  be- 
hest he  would  play  with  all  the  silly  abandon  of  a 
puppy;  rolling  on  the  ground  at  her  feet,  making 
as  though  to  seize  and  crush  one  of  her  little 
shoes  in  his  mighty  jaws ;  wriggling  and  waving  his 
legs  in  air  when  she  buried  her  hand  in  the  masses 
of  his  chest-ruff;  and  otherwise  comporting  him- 
self with  complete  loss  of  dignity. 

But  to  all  except  these  two,  he  was  calmly  un- 
approachable. From  his  earliest  days  he  had  never 
forgotten  he  was  an  aristocrat  among  inferiors. 
And,  calmly  aloof,  he  moved  among  his  subjects. 


28  LAD:    A  DOG 

Then,  all  at  once,  into  the  sweet  routine  of  the 
House  of  Peace,  came  Horror. 

It  began  on  a  blustery,  sour  October  day.  The 
Mistress  had  crossed  the  lake  to  the  village,  in  her 
canoe,  with  Lad  curled  up  in  a  furry  heap  in  the 
prow.  On  the  return  trip,  about  fifty  yards  from 
shore,  the  canoe  struck  sharply  and  obliquely 
against  a  half -submerged  log  that  a  Fall  freshet 
had  swept  down  from  the  river  above  the  lake. 
At  the  same  moment  a  flaw  of  wind  caught  the 
canoe's  quarter.  And,  after  the  manner  of  such 
eccentric  craft,  the  canvas  shell  proceeded  to  turn 
turtle. 

Into  the  ice-chill  waters  splashed  its  two  occu- 
pants. Lad  bobbed  to  the  top,  and  glanced  around 
at  the  Mistress  to  learn  if  this  were  a  new  practical 
joke.  But,  instantly,  he  saw  it  was  no  joke  at  all, 
so  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

Swathed  and  cramped  by  the  folds  of  her  heavy 
outing  skirt,  the  Mistress'  was  making  no  progress 
shoreward.  And  the  dog  flung  himself  through  the 
water  toward  her  with  a  rush  that  left  his  shoulders 
and  half  his  back  above  the  surface.  In  a  second  he 
had  reached  her  and  had  caught  her  sweater-shoul- 
der in  his  teeth. 

She  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  lie  out  straight, 
as  though  she  were  floating,  and  to  fill  her  lungs 
with  a  swift  intake  of  breath.  The  dog's  burden 
was  thus  made  infinitely  lighter  than  if  she  had 
struggled  or  had  lain  in  a  posture  less  easy  for 


"QUIET"  29 

towing.  Yet  he  made  scant  headway,  until  she 
wound  one  hand  in  his  mane,  and,  still  lying 
motionless  and  stiff,  bade  him  loose  his  hold  on  her 
shoulder. 

In  this  way,  by  sustained  effort  that  wrenched 
every  giant  muscle  in  the  collie's  body,  they  came  at 
last  to  land.A 

Vastly  rejoiced  was  Lad,  and  inordinately  proud 
of  himself.  And  the  plaudits  of  the  Master  and  the 
Mistress  were  music  to  him.  Indefinably,  he  under- 
stood he  had  done  a  very  wonderful  thing  and  that 
everybody  on  The  Place  was  talking  about  him, 
and  that  all  were  trying  to  pet  him  at  once. 

This  promiscuous  handling  he  began  to  find  un- 
welcome. And  he  retired  at  last  to  his  "cave" 
under  the  piano  to  escape  from  it.  Matters  soon 
quieted  down;  and  the  incident  seemed  at  an  end. 

Instead,  it  had  just  begun. 

For,  within  an  hour,  the  Mistress — who,  for 
days  had  been  half -sick  with  a  cold — was  stricken 
with  a  chill,  and  by  night  she  was  in  the  first  stages 
of  pneumonia. 

Then  over  The  Place  descended  Gloom.  A  gloom 
Lad  could  not  understand  until  he  went  upstairs 
at  dinner-time  to  escort  the  Mistress,  as  usual,  to 
the  dining-room.  But  to  his  light  scratch  at  her 
door  there  was  no  reply.  He  scratched  again  and 
presently  Master  came  out  of  the  room  and  ordered 
him  down-stairs  again. 

Then  from  the  Master's  voice  and  look,  Lad 


30  LAD:    A  DOG 

understood  that  something  was  terribly  amiss.  Also, 
as  she  did  not  appear  at  dinner  and  as  he  was  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  forbidden  to  go  into  her 
room,  he  knew  the  Mistress  was  the  victim  of 
whatever  mishap  had  befallen. 

A  strange  man,  with  a  black  bag,  came  to  the 
house  early  in  the  evening;  and  he  and  the  Master 
were  closeted  for  an  interminable  time  in  the 
Mistress'  room.  Lad  had  crept  dejectedly  up- 
stairs behind  them;  and  sought  to  crowd  into  the 
room  at  their  heels.  The  Master  ordered  him  back 
and  shut  the  door  in  his  face. 

Lad  lay  down  on  the  threshold,  his  nose  to  the 
crack  at  the  bottom  of  the  door,  and  waited.  He 
heard  the  murmur  of  speech. 

Once  he  caught  the  Mistress*  voice — changed 
and  muffled  and  with  a  puzzling  new  note  in  it — 
but  undeniably  the  Mistress*.  And  his  tail 
thumped  hopefully  on  the  hall  floor.  But  no  one 
came  to  let  him  in.  And,  after  the  mandate  to 
keep  out,  he  dared  not  scratch  for  admittance. 

The  doctor  almost  stumbled  across  the  couchant 
body  of  the  dog  as  he  left  the  room  with  the 
Master.  Being  a  dog-owner  himself,  the  doctor 
understood  and  his  narrow  escape  from  a  fall 
over  the  living  obstacle  did  not  irritate  him.  But 
it  reminded  him  of  something. 

"Those  other  dogs  of  yours  outside  there,"  he 
said  to  the  Master,  as  they  went  down  the  stairs, 
"raised  a  fearful  racket  when  my  car  came  down 


"QUIET"  31 

the  drive,  just  now.  Better  send  them  all  away 
somewhere  till  she  is  better.  The  house  must  be 
kept  perfectly  quiet." 

The  Master  looked  back,  up  the  stairway;  at  its 
top,  pressed  close  against  the  Mistress*  door, 
crouched  Lad.  Something  in  the  dog's  heartbroken 
attitude  touched  him. 

"I'll  send  them  over  to  the  boarding-kennels  in 
the  morning,"  he  answered.  "All  except  Lad.  He 
and  I  are  going  to  see  this  through,  together.  He'll 
be  quiet,  if  I  tell  him  to." 

All  through  the  endless  night,  while  the  October 
wind  howled  and  yelled  around  the  house,  Lad  lay 
outside  the  sick-room  door,  his  nose  between  his 
absurdly  small  white  paws,  his  sorrowful  eyes  wide 
open,  his  ears  alert  for  the  faintest  sound  from  the 
room  beyond. 

Sometimes,  when  the  wind  screamed  its  loudest, 
Lad  would  lift  his  head — his  ruff  a-bristle,  his  teeth 
glinting  from  under  his  upcurled  lip.  And  he  would 
growl  a  throaty  menace.  It  was  as  though  he  heard, 
in  the  tempest's  racket,  the  strife  of  evil  gale-spirits 
to  burst  in  through  the  rattling  windows  and  attack 
the  stricken  Mistress.  Perhaps — well,  perhaps 
there  are  things  visible  and  audible  to  dogs;  to 
which  humans  were  deaf  and  blind.  Or  perhaps 
they  are  not. 

Lad  was  there  when  day  broke  and  when  the 
Master,  heavy-eyed  from  sleeplessness,  came  out- 
He  was  there  when  the  other  dogs  were  herded 


32  LAD:    A  DOG 

into  the  car  and  carried  away  to  the  boarding- 
kennels. 

Lad  was  there  when  the  car  came  back  from  the 
station,  bringing  to  The  Place  an  angular,  wooden- 
faced  woman  with  yellow  hair  and  a  yellower  suit- 
case— a  horrible  woman  who  vaguely  smelt  of  dis- 
infectants and  of  rigid  Efficiency,  and  who  pres- 
ently approached  the  sick-room,  clad  and  capped  in 
stiff  white.  Lad  hated  her. 

He  was  there  when  the  doctor  came  for  his 
morning  visit  to  the  invalid.  And  again  he  tried 
to  edge  his  own  way  into  the  room,  only  to  be 
rebuffed  once  more. 

"This  is  the  third  time  I've  nearly  broken  my 
neck  over  that  miserable  dog,"  chidingly  announced 
the  nurse,  later  in  the  day,  as  she  came  out  of  the 
room  and  chanced  to  meet  the  Master  on  the  land- 
ing. "Do  please»drive  him  away.  I've  tried  to  do 
it,  but  he  only  snarls  at  me.  And  in  a  dangerous 
case  like  this " 

"Leave  him  alone,"  briefly  ordered  the  Master. 

But  when  the  nurse,  sniffing,  passed  on,  he  called 
Lad  over  to  him.  Reluctantly,  the  dog  quitted  the 
door  and  obeyed  the  summons. 

"Quiet!"  ordered  the  Master,  speaking  very 
slowly  and  distinctly.  "You  must  keep  quiet. 
Quiet!  Understand?" 

Lad  understood.  Lad  always  understood.  He 
must  not  bark.  He  must  move  silently.  He  must 
make  no  unnecessary  sound.  But,  at  least,  the 


"QUIET"  33 

Master  had  not  forbidden  him  to  snarl  softly  and 
loathingly  at  that  detestable  white-clad  woman 
every  time  she  stepped  over  him. 

So  there  was  one  grain  of  comfort. 

Gently,  the  Master  called  him  downstairs  and 
across  the  living-room,  and  put  him  out  of  the 
house.  For,  after  all,  a  shaggy  eighty-pound  dog 
is  an  inconvenience  stretched  across  a  sick-room 
doorsill. 

Three  minutes  later,  Lad  had  made  his  way 
through  an  open  window  into  the  cellar  and  thence 
upstairs ;  and  was  stretched  out,  head  between  paws, 
at  the  threshold  of  the  Mistress'  room. 

On  his  thrice-a-day  visits,  the  doctor  was  forced 
to  step  over  him,  and  was  man  enough  to  forbear 
to  curse.  Twenty  times  a  day,  the  nurse  stumbled 
over  his  massive,  inert  body,  and  fumed  in  im- 
potent rage.  The  Master,  too,  came  back  and 
forth  from  the  sick-room,  with  now  and  then  a 
kindly  word  for  the  suffering  collie,  and  again  and 
again  put  him  out  of  the  house. 

But  always  Lad  managed,  by  hook  or  crook,  to 
be  back  on  guard  within  a  minute  or  two.  And 
never  once  did  the  door  of  the  Mistress'  room 
open  that  he  did  not  make  a  strenuous  attempt  to 
enter. 

Servants,  nurse,  doctor,  and  Master  repeatedly 
forgot  he  was  there,  and  stubbed  their  toes  across 
his  body.  Sometimes  their  feet  drove  agonizingly 
into  his  tender  flesh.  But  never  a  whimper  or 


34  LAD:    A  DOG 

growl  did  the  pain  wring  from  him.  "Quiet!"  had 
been  the  command,  and  he  was  obeying. 

And  so  it  went  on,  through  the  awful  days  and 
the  infinitely  worse  nights.  Except  when  he  was 
ordered  away  by  the  Master,  Lad  would  not  stir 
from  his  place  at  the  door.  And  not  even  the 
Master's  authority  could  keep  him  away  from  it 
for  five  minutes  a  day. 

The  dog  ate  nothing,  drank  practically  nothing, 
took  no  exercise;  moved  not  one  inch,  of  his  own 
will,  from  the  doorway.  In  vain  did  the  glories 
of  Autumn  woods  call  to  him.  The  rabbits  would 
be  thick,  out  yonder  in  the  forest,  just  now.  So 
would  the  squirrels — against  which  Lad  had  long 
since  sworn  a  blood- feud  (and  one  of  which  it 
had  ever  been  his  futile  life  ambition  to  catch). 

For  him,  these  things  no  longer  existed.  Nothing 
existed;  except  his  mortal  hatred  of  the  unseen 
Something  in  that  forbidden  room — the  Something 
that  was  seeking  to  take  the  Mistress  away  with  It. 
He  yearned  unspeakably  to  be  in  that  room  to 
guard  her  from  her  nameless  Peril.  And  they 
would  not  let  him  in — these  humans. 

Wherefore  he  lay  there,  crushing  his  body  close 
against  the  door  and — waiting. 

And,  inside  the  room,  Death  and  the  Napoleonic 
man  with  the  black  bag  fought  their  "no-quarter" 
duel  for  the  life  of  the  still,  little  white  figure  in 
the  great  white  bed. 

One  night,  the  doctor  did  not  go  home  at  all. 


"QUIET"  35 

Toward  dawn  the  Master  lurched  out  of  the  room 
and  sat  down  for  a  moment  on  the  stairs,  his  face 
in  his  hands.  Then  and  then  only,  during  all  that 
time  of  watching,  did  Lad  leave  the  doorsill  of  his 
own  accord. 

Shaky  with  famine  and  weariness,  he  got  to  his 
feet,  moaning  softly,  and  crept  over  to  the  Master; 
he  lay  down  beside  him,  his  huge  head  athwart  the 
man's  knees;  his  muzzle  reaching  timidly  toward 
the  tight-clenched  hands. 

Presently  the  Master  went  back  into  the  sick- 
room. And  Lad  was  left  alone  in  the  darkness — 
to  wonder  and  to  listen  and  to  wait.  With  a  tired 
sigh  he  returned  to  the  door  and  once  more  took 
up  his  heartsick  vigil. 

Then — on  a  golden  morning,  days  later,  the 
doctor  came  and  went  with  the  look  of  a  Con- 
queror. Even  the  wooden-faced  nurse  forgot  to 
grunt  in  disgust  when  she  stumbled  across  the  dog's 
body.  She  almost  smiled.  And  presently  the 
Master  came  out  through  the  doorway.  He  stopped 
at  sight  of  Lad,  and  turned  back  into  the  room. 
Lad  could  hear  him  speak.  And  he  heard  a  dear, 
dear  voice  make  answer ;  very  weakly,  but  no  longer 
in  that  muffled  and  foreign  tone  which  had  so 
frightened  him.  Then  came  a  sentence  the  dog 
could  understand. 

"Come  in,  old  friend,"  said  the  Master,  opening 
the  door  and  standing  aside  for  Lad  to  enter. 

At  a  bound,  the  collie  was  in  the  room.     There 


36  LAD:    A  DOG 

lay  the  Mistress.  She  was  very  thin,  very  white, 
very  feeble.  But  she  was  there.  The  dread  Some- 
thing had  lost  the  battle. 

Lad  wanted  to  break  forth  into  a  peal  of  ecstatic 
barking  that  would  have  deafened  every  one  in  the 
room.  The  Master  read  the  wish  and  interposed, 

"  Quiet  t" 

Lad  heard.  He  controlled  the  yearning.  But 
it  cost  him  a  world  of  will-power  to  do  it.  As 
sedately  as  he  could  force  himself  to  move,  he 
crossed  to  the  bed. 

The  Mistress  was  smiling  at  him.  One  hand 
was  stretched  weakly  forth  to  stroke  him.  And 
she  was  saying  almost  in  a  whisper,  "Lad! 
Laddie!" 

That  was  all.  But  her  hand  was  petting  him 
in  the  dear  way  he  loved  so  well.  And  the  Master 
was  telling  her  all  over  again  how  the  dog  had 
watched  outside  her  door.  Lad  listened — not  to 
the  man's  praise,  but  to  the  woman's  caressing 
whisper — and  he  quivered  from  head  to  tail.  He 
fought  furiously  with  himself  once  again,  to  choke 
back  the  rapturous  barking  that  clamored  for  ut- 
terance. He  knew  this  was  no  time  for  noise. 
Even  without  the  word  of  warning,  he  would  have 
known  it.  For  the  Mistress  was  whispering.  Even 
the  Master  was  speaking  scarce  louder. 

But  one  thing  Lad  realized :  the  black  danger  was 
past.  The  Mistress  was  alive !  And  the  whole  house 
was  smiling.  That  was  enough.  And  the  yearn- 


"QUIET"  87 

ing  to  show,  in  noise,  his  own  wild  relief,  was  all 
but  irresistible.  Then  the  Master  said: 

"Run  on,  Lad.    You  can  come  back  by-and-by." 

And  the  dog  gravely  made  his  way  out  of  the 
room  and  out  of  the  house. 

The  minute  he  was  out-of-doors,  he  proceeded 
to  go  crazy.  Nothing  but  sheer  mania  could  excuse 
his  actions  during  the  rest  of  that  day.  They  were 
unworthy  of  a  mongrel  puppy.  And  never  before 
in  all  his  blameless,  stately  life  had  Lad  so  grossly 
misbehaved  as  he  now  proceeded  to  do.  The 
Mistress  was  alive.  The  Horror  was  past.  Reac- 
tion set  in  with  a  rush.  As  I  have  said,  Lad  went 
crazy. 

Peter  Grimm,  the  Mistress's  cynical  and  temper- 
amental gray  cat,  was  picking  its  dainty  way  across 
the  lawn  as  Lad  emerged  from  the  house. 

Ordinarily,  Lad  regarded  Peter  Grimm  with  a 
cold  tolerance.  But  now,  he  dashed  at  the  cat  with 
a  semblance  of  stark  wrath.  Like  a  furry  whirl- 
wind he  bore  down  upon  the  amazed  feline.  The 
cat,  in  dire  offense,  scratched  his  nose  with  a  quite 
unnecessary  virulence  and  fled  up  a  tree,  spitting 
and  yowling,  tail  fluffed  out  as  thick  as  a  man's 
wrist. 

Seeing  that  Peter  Grimm  had  resorted  to  un- 
sportsmanly  tactics  by  scrambling  whither  he  could 
not  follow,  Lad  remembered  the  need  for  silence 
and  forbore  to  bark  threats  at  his  escaped  victim. 


88  LAD:    A  DOG 

Instead,  he  galloped  to  the  rear  of  the  house  where 
stood  the  dairy. 

The  dairy  door  was  on  the  latch.  With  his  head 
Lad  butted  it  open  and  ran  into  the  stone-floored 
room.  A  line  of  full  milk-pans  were  ranged  side 
by  side  on  a  shelf.  Rising  on  his  hind-legs  and 
bracing  his  forepaws  on  the  shelf,  Lad  seized  edges 
of  the  deep  pans,  one  after  another,  between  his 
teeth,  and,  with  a  succession  of  sharp  jerks  brought 
them  one  and  all  clattering  to  the  floor. 

Scampering  out  of  the  dairy,  ankle  deep  in  a 
river  of  spilt  milk,  and  paying  no  heed  to  the  cries 
of  the  scandalized  cook,  he  charged  forth  in  the 
open  again.  His  eye  fell  on  a  red  cow,  tethered 
by  a  long  chain  in  a  pasture-patch  beyond  the 
stables. 

She  was  an  old  acquaintance  of  his,  this  cow. 
She  had  been  on  The  Place  since  before  he  was 
born.  Yet,  to-day  Lad's  spear  knew  no  brother. 
He  tore  across  the  lawn  and  past  the  stables, 
straight  at  the  astonished  bovine.  In  terror,  the 
cow  threw  up  her  tail  and  sought  to  lumber  away 
at  top  speed.  Being  controlled  by  her  tether  she 
could  run  only  in  a  wide  circle.  And  around  and 
around  this  circle  Lad  drove  the  bellowing  brute 
as  fast  as  he  could  make  her  run,  until  the  gardener 
came  panting  to  her  relief. 

But  neither  the  gardener  nor  any  other  living 
creature  could  stay  Lad's  rampage  that  day.  He 
fled  merrily  up  to  the  Lodge  at  the  gate,  burst  into 


"QUIET"  39 

its  kitchen  ahd  through  to  the  refrigerator.  There, 
in  a  pan,  he  found  a  raw  leg  of  mutton.  Seizing 
this  twelve-pound  morsel  in  his  teeth  and  dodging 
the  indignant  housewife,  he  careered  out  into  the 
highway  with  his  prize,  dug  a  hole  in  the  roadside 
ditch  and  was  gleefully  preparing  to  bury  the 
mutton  therein,  when  its  outraged  owner  rescued  it. 

A  farmer  was  jogging  along  the  road  behind  a 
half-dozing  horse.  A  painful  nip  on  the  rear  hind- 
leg  turned  the  nag's  drowsy  jog  into  a  really  in- 
dustrious effort  at  a  runaway.  Already,  Lad  had 
sprung  clear  of  the  front  wheel.  As  the  wagon 
bumped  past  him,  he  leaped  upward;  deftly  caught 
a  hanging  corner  of  the  lap-robe  and  hauled  it 
free  of  the  seat. 

Robe  in  mouth,  he  capered  off  into  a  field;  play- 
fully keeping  just  out  of  the  reach  of  the  pursuing 
agrarian ;  and  at  last  he  deposited  the  stolen  treasure 
in  the  heart  of  a  bramble-patch  a  full  half-mile 
from  the  road. 

Lad  made  his  way  back  to  The  Place  by  a  wide 
detour  that  brought  him  through  the  grounds  of 
a  neighbor  of  the  Master's. 

This  neighbor  owned  a  dog — a  mean-eyed,  rangy 
and  mangy  pest  of  a  brute  that  Lad  would  ordinarily 
have  scorned  to  notice.  But,  most  decidedly,  he 
noticed  the  dog  now.  He  routed  it  out  of  its  kennel 
and  bestowed  upon  it  a  thrashing  that  brought  its 
possessor's  entire  family  shrieking  to  the  scene  of 
conflict. 


40  LAD:    A  DOG 

Courteously  refusing  to  carry  the  matter  further, 
in  face  of  a  half-dozen  shouting  humans,  Lad 
cantered  homeward. 

From  the  clothes-line,  on  the  drying-ground  at 
The  Place,  fluttered  a  large  white  object.  It  was 
palpably  a  nurse's  uniform — palpably  the  nurse's 
uniform.  And  Lad  greeted  its  presence  there  with 
a  grin  of  pure  bliss. 

In  less  than  two  seconds  the  uniform  was  off 
the  line,  with  three  huge  rents  marring  its  stiff 
surface.  In  less  than  thirty  seconds,  it  was  re- 
posing in  the  rich  black  mud  on  the  verge  of  the 
lake,  and  Lad  was  rolling  playfully  on  it. 

Then  he  chanced  to  remember  his  long-neglected 
enemies,  the  squirrels,  and  his  equally-neglected 
prey,  the  rabbits.  And  he  loped  off  to  the  forest 
to  wage  gay  warfare  upon  them.  He  was  glori- 
ously, idiotically,  criminally  happy.  And,  for  the 
time,  he  was  a  fool. 

All  day  long,  complaints  came  pouring  in  to  the 
Master.  Lad  had  destroyed  the  whole  "set"  of 
cream.  Lad  had  chased  the  red  cow  till  it  would  be 
a  miracle  if  she  didn't  fall  sick  of  it.  Lad  had  scared 
poor  dear  little  Peter  Grimm  so  badly  that  the  cat 
seemed  likely  to  spend  all  the  rest  of  its  nine  lives 
squalling  in  the  tree-top  and  crossly  refusing  to 
come  down. 

Lad  had  spoiled  a  Sunday  leg  of  mutton,  up  at 
the  Lodge.  Lad  had  made  a  perfectly  respectable 
horse  run  madly  away  for  nearly  twenty-five  feet, 


"QUIET"  41 

and  had  given  the  horse's  owner  a  blasphemous 
half-mile  run  over  a  plowed  field  after  a  cherished 
and  ravished  lap-robe.  Lad  had  well-nigh  killed 
a  neighbor's  particularly  killable  dog.  Lad  had 
wantonly  destroyed  the  nurse's  very  newest  and 
most  expensive  uniform.  All  day  it  was  Lad — Lad 
—Lad! 

Lad,  it  seemed,  was  a  storm-center,  whence 
radiated  complaints  that  ran  the  whole  gamut  from 
tears  to  lurid  profanity;  and,  to  each  and  every 
complainant,  the  Master  made  the  same  answer : 

"Leave  him  alone.  We're  just  out  of  hell — Lad 
and  I!  He's  doing  the  things  I'd  do  myself,  if  I 
had  the  nerve." 

Which,  of  course,  was  a  manifestly  asinine  way 
for  a  grown  man  to  talk. 

Long  after  dusk,  Lad  pattered  meekly  home, 
very  tired  and  quite  sane.  His  spell  of  imbecility 
had  worn  itself  out.  He  was  once  more  his  calmly 
dignified  self,  though  not  a  little  ashamed  of  his 
babyish  pranks,  and  mildly  wondering  how  he  had 
come  to  behave  so. 

Still,  he  could  not  grieve  over  what  he  had  done. 
He  could  not  grieve  over  anything  just  yet.  The 
Mistress  was  alive!  And  while  the  craziness  had 
passed,  the  happiness  had  not.  Tired,  drowsily  at 
peace  with  all  the  world,  he  curled  up  under  the 
piano  and  went  to  sleep. 

He  slept  so  soundly  that  the  locking  of  the  house 
for  the  night  did  not  rouse  him.  But  something 


42  LAD:    A  DOG 

else  did.  Something  that  occurred  long  after  every- 
one on  The  Place  was  sound  asleep.  Lad  was 
joyously  pursuing,  through  the  forest  aisles  of 
dreamland,  a  whole  army  of  squirrels  that  had  not 
sense  enough  to  climb  trees — when  in  a  moment, 
he  was  wide  awake  and  on  guard.  Far  off,  very 
far  off,  he  heard  a  man  walking. 

Now,  to  a  trained  dog  there  is  as  much  difference 
in  the  sound  of  human  footfalls  as,  to  humans, 
there  is  a  difference  in  the  aspect  of  human  faces. 
A  belated  countryman  walking  along  the  highway, 
a  furlong  distant,  would  not  have  awakened  Lad 
from  sleep.  Also,  he  knew  and  could  classify,  at 
any  distance,  the  footsteps  of  everyone  who  lived 
on  The  Place.  But  the  steps  that  had  brought  him 
wide  awake  and  on  the  alert  to-night,  did  not  be- 
long to  one  of  The  Place's  people;  nor  were  they 
the  steps  of  anybody  who  had  a  right  to  be  on  the 
premises. 

Someone  had  climbed  the  fence,  at  a  distance 
from  the  drive,  and  was  crossing  the  grounds,  ob- 
liquely, toward  the  house.  It  was  a  man,  and  he 
was  still  nearly  two  hundred  yards  away.  More- 
over, he  was  walking  stealthily;  and  pausing  every 
now  and  then  as  if  to  reconnoiter. 

No  human,  at  that  distance,  could  have  heard  the 
steps.  No  dog  could  have  helped  hearing  them. 
Had  the  other  dogs  been  at  home  instead  of  at 
the  boarding-kennels,  The  Place  would  by  this  time 
have  been  re-echoing  with  barks.  Both  scent  and 


"QUIET"  43 

sound  would  have  given  them  ample  warning  of  the 
stranger's  presence. 

To  Lad,  on  the  lower  floor  of  the  house,  where 
every  window  was  shut,  the  aid  of  scent  was  denied. 
Yet  his  sense  of  hearing  was  enough.  Plainly,  he 
heard  the  softly  advancing  steps — heard  and  read 
them.  He  read  them  for  an  intruder's — read  them 
for  the  steps  of  a  man  who  was  afraid  to  be  heard 
or  seen,  and  who  was  employing  all  the  caution  in 
his  power. 

A  booming,  trumpeting  bark  of  warning  sprang 
into  Lad's  throat — and  died  there.  The  sharp 
command  "Quiet!"  was  still  in  force.  Even  in  his 
madness,  that  day,  he  had  uttered  no  sound.  He 
strangled  back  the  tumultuous  bark  and  listened 
in  silence.  He  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  had  come 
out  from  under  the  piano.  In  the  middle  of  the 
living-room  he  stood,  head  lowered,  ears  pricked. 
His  ruff  was  abristle.  A  ridge  of  hair  rose 
grotesquely  from  the  shaggy  mass  of  coat  along 
his  spine.  His  lips  had  slipped  back  from  his  teeth. 
And  so  he  stood  and  waited. 

The  shuffling,  soft  steps  were  nearer  now.  Down 
through  the  trees  they  came,  and  then  onto  the 
springy  grass  of  the  lawn.  Now  they  crunched 
lightly  on  the  gravel  of  the  drive.  Lad  moved  for- 
ward a  little  and  again  stood  at  attention. 

The  man  was  climbing  to  the  veranda.  The  vines 
rustled  ever  so  slightly  as  he  brushed  pa3t  them. 
His  footfall  sounded  lightly  on  the  veranda  itself* 


44  LAD:    A  DOG 

Next  there  was  a  faint  clicking  noise  at  the  old- 
fashioned  lock  of  one  of  the  bay  windows.  Pres- 
ently, by  half  inches,  the  window  began  to  rise. 
Before  it  had  risen  an  inch,  Lad  knew  the  tres- 
passer was  a  negro.  Also  that  it  was  no  one  with 
whose  scent  he  was  familiar. 

Another  pause,  followed  by  the  very  faintest 
scratching,  as  the  negro  ran  a  knife-blade  along 
the  crack  of  the  inner  wooden  blinds  in  search 
the  catch. 

The  blinds  parted  slowly.  Over  the  window-sill 
the  man  threw  a  leg.  Then  he  stepped  down,  noise- 
lessly into  the  room. 

He  stood  there  a  second,  evidently  listening. 

And,  before  he  could  stir  or  breathe,  something 
in  the  darkness  hurled  itself  upon  him. 

Without  so  much  as  a  growl  of  warning,  eighty 
pounds  of  muscular,  hairy  energy  smote  the  negro 
full  in  the  chest.  A  set  of  hot-breathing  jaws 
flashed  for  his  jugular  vein,  missed  it  by  a  half- 
inch,  and  the  graze  left  a  red-hot  searing  pain  along 
the  negro's  throat.  In  the  merest  fraction  of  a 
moment,  the  murderously  snapping  jaws  sank  into 
the  thief's  shoulder.  It  is  collie  custom  to  fight 
with  a  running  accompaniment  of  snarling  growls. 
But  Lad  did  not  give  voice.  In  total  silence  he 
made  his  onslaught.  In  silence,  he  sought  and 
gained  his  hold. 

The  negro  was  less  considerate  of  the  Mistress* 
comfort.  With  a  screech  that  would  have  waked 


"QUIET"  45 

every  mummy  in  Egypt,  he  reeled  back,  under  that 
first  unseen  impact,  lost  his  balance  and  crashed  to 
the  hardwood  floor,  overturning  a  table  and  a  lamp 
in  his  fall.  Certain  that  a  devil  had  attacked  him 
there  in  the  black  darkness,  the  man  gave  forth  yell 
after  yell  of  mortal  terror.  Frantically,  he  strove 
to  push  away  his  assailant  and  his  clammy  hand 
encountered  a  mass  of  fur. 

The  negro  had  heard  that  all  the  dogs  on  The 
Place  had  been  sent  away  because  of  the  Mistress* 
illness.  Hence  his  attempt  at  burglary.  Hence 
also,  his  panic  fear  when  Lad  had  sprung  on  him. 

But  with  the  feel  of  the  thick  warm  fur,  the 
man's  superstitious  terror  died.  He  knew  he  had 
roused  the  house ;  but  there  was  still  time  to  escape 
if  he  could  rid  himself  of  this  silent,  terrible 
creature.  He  staggered  to  his  feet.  And,  with  the 
knife  he  still  clutched,  he  smote  viciously  at  his 
assailant. 

Because  Lad  was  a  collie,  Lad  was  not  killed 
then  and  there.  A  bulldog  or  a  bull-terrier,  attack- 
ing a  man,  seeks  for  some  convenient  hold.  Hav- 
ing secured  that  hold — be  it  good  or  bad — he  locks 
his  jaws  and  hangs  on.  You  can  well-nigh  cut  his 
head  from  his  body  before  he  will  let  go.  Thus, 
he  is  at  the  mercy  of  any  armed  man  who  can  keep 
cool  long  enough  to  kill  him. 

But  a  collie  has  a  strain  of  wolf  in  his  queer 
brain.  He  seeks  a  hold,  it  is  true.  But  at  an  in- 
stant's notice,  he  is  ready  to  shift  that  hold  for  a 


46  LAD:    A  DOG 

better.  He  may  bite  or  slash  a  dozen  times  in  as 
many  seconds  and  in  as  many  parts  of  the  body. 
He  is  everywhere  at  once — he  is  nowhere  in  par- 
ticular. He  is  not  a  pleasant  opponent. 

Lad  did  not  wait  for  the  negro's  knife  to  find 
his  heart.  As  the  man  lunged,  the  dog  transferred 
his  profitless  shoulderhold  to  a  grip  on  the  stabbing 
arm.  The  knife  blade  plowed  an  ugly  furrow  along 
his  side.  And  the  dog's  curved  eye-tooth  slashed 
the  negro's  arm  from  elbow  to  wrist,  clean  through 
to  the  bone. 

The  knife  clattered  to  the  floor.  The  negro 
wheeled  and  made  a  leap  for  the  open  window;  he 
had  not  cleared  half  the  space  when  Lad  bounded 
for  the  back  of  his  neck.  The  dog's  upper  set  of 
teeth  raked  the  man's  hard  skull,  carrying  away 
a  handful  of  wool  and  flesh;  and  his  weight  threw 
the  thief  forward  on  hands  and  knees  again.  Twist- 
ing, the  man  found  the  dog's  furry  throat ;  and  with 
both  hands  sought  to  strangle  him;  at  the  same 
time  backing  out  through  the  window.  But  it  is 
not  easy  to  strangle  a  collie.  The  piles  of  tumbled 
ruff-hair  form  a  protection  no  other  breed  of  dog 
can  boast.  Scarcely  had  the  hands  found  their  grip 
when  one  of  them  was  crushed  between  the  dog's 
vise-like  jaws. 

The  negro  flung  off  his  enemy  and  turned  to 
clear  the  veranda  at  a  single  jump.  But  before 
he  had  half  made  the  turn,  Lad  was  at  his  throat 
again,  and  the  two  crashed  through  the  vines  to- 


"QUIET"  47 

gather  and  down  onto  the  driveway  below.  The 
entire  combat  had  not  lasted  for  more  than  thirty 
seconds. 

The  Master,  pistol  and  flashlight  in  hand,  ran 
down  to  find  the  living-room  amuck  with  blood 
and  with  smashed  furniture,  and  one  of  the  win- 
dows open.  He  flashed  the  electric  ray  through 
the  window.  On  the  ground  below,  stunned  by 
striking  against  a  stone  jardiniere  in  his  fall,  the 
negro  sprawled  senseless  upon  his  back.  Above  him 
was  Lad,  his  searching  teeth  at  last  having  found 
their  coveted  throat-hold.  Steadily,  the  great  dog 
was  grinding  his  way  through  toward  the  jugular. 

There  was  a  deal  of  noise  and  excitement  and 
light  after  that.  The  negro  was  trussed  up  and 
the  local  constable  was  summoned  by  telephone. 
Everybody  seemed  to  be  doing  much  loud  talking. 

Lad  took  advantage  of  the  turmoil  to  slip  back 
into  the  house  and  to  his  "cave"  under  the  piano; 
where  he  proceeded  to  lick  solicitously  the  flesh 
wound  on  his  left  side. 

He  was  very  tired ;  and  he  was  very  unhappy  and 
he  was  very  much  worried.  In  spite  of  all  his  own 
precautions  as  to  silence,  the  negro  had  made  a 
most  ungodly  lot  of  noise.  The  commandment 
"Quiet!"  had  been  fractured  past  repair.  And, 
somehow,  Lad  felt  blame  for  it  all.  It  was  really 
his  fault — and  he  realized  it  now — that  the  man 
had  made  such  a  racket.  Would  the  Master  punish 


48  LAD:    A  DOG 

him?  Perhaps.  Humans  have  such  odd  ideas  of 
Justice.  He 

Then  it  was  that  the  Master  found  him;  and 
called  him  forth  from  his  place  of  refuge.  Head 
adroop,  tail  low,  Lad  crept  out  to  meet  his  scolding. 
He  looked  very  much  like  a  puppy  caught  tearing 
a  new  rug. 

But  suddenly,  the  Master  and  everyone  else  in 
the  room  was  patting  him  and  telling  him  how 
splendid  he  was.  And  the  Master  had  found  the 
deep  scratch  on  his  side  and  was  dressing  it,  and 
stopping  every  minute  or  so,  to  praise  him  again. 
And  then,  as  a  crowning  reward,  he  was  taken 
upstairs  for  the  Mistress  to  stroke  and  make 
much  of. 

When  at  last  he  was  sent  downstairs  again,  Lad 
did  not  return  to  his  piano-lair.  Instead,  he  went 
out-of-doors  and  away  from  The  Place.  And, 
when  he  thought  he  was  far  enough  from  the  house, 
he  solemnly  sat  down  and  began  to  bark. 

It  was  good — passing  good — to  be  able  to  make 
a  noise  again.  He  had  never  before  known  how 
needful  to  canine  happiness  a  bark  really  is.  He 
had  long  and  pressing  arrears  of  barks  in  his  sys- 
tem. And  thunderously  he  proceeded  to  divest 
himself  of  them  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 

Then,  feeling  much,  much  better,  he  ambled 
homeward,  to  take  up  normal  life  again  after  a 
whole  fortnight  of  martyrdom. 


CHAPTER  III 
A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO 

THE  connecting  points  between  the  inner  and 
outer  Lad  were  a  pair  of  the  wisest  and 
darkest  and  most  sorrowful  eyes  in  all 
dogdom — eyes  that  gave  the  lie  to  folk  who  say 
no  dog  has  a  soul.  There  are  such  dogs  once  in 
a  human  generation. 

Lad  had  but  one  tyrant  in  all  the  world.  That 
was  his  dainty  gold-and-white  collie-mate,  Lady; 
Lady,  whose  affections  he  had  won  in  fair  life-and- 
death  battle  with  a  younger  and  stronger  dog; 
Lady,  who  bullied  him  unmercifully  and  teased 
him  and  did  fearful  things  to  his  stately  dignity; 
and  to  whom  he  allowed  liberties  that  would  have 
brought  any  other  aggressor  painfully  near  to 
death. 

Lady  was  high-strung  and  capricious;  a  collie  de 
luxe.  Lad  and  she  were  as  oddly  contrasted  a 
couple,  in  body  and  mind,  as  one  could  find  in  a 
day's  journey  through  their  North  Jersey  hinter- 
land. To  The  Place  (at  intervals  far  too  few  be- 
tween to  suit  Lad),  came  human  guests;  people, 
for  the  most  part,  who  did  not  understand  dogs 

4Q 


50  LAD:    A  DOG 

and  who  either  drew  away  in  causeless  fear  from 
them  or  else  insisted  on  patting  or  hauling  them 
about. 

Lad  detested  guests.  He  met  their  advances  with 
cold  courtesy,  and,  as  soon  as  possible,  got  himself 
out  of  their  way.  He  knew  the  Law  far  too  well 
to  snap  or  to  growl  at  a  guest.  But  the  Law  did 
not  compel  him  to  stay  within  patting  distance  of 
one. 

The  careless  caress  of  the  Mistress  or  the  Master 
— especially  of  the  Mistress — was  a  delight  to  him. 
He  would  sport  like  an  overgrown  puppy  with 
either  of  these  deities;  throwing  dignity  to  the 
four  winds.  But  to  them  alone  did  he  unbend — to 
them  and  to  his  adored  tyrant,  Lady. 

To  The  Place,  of  a  cold  spring  morning,  came 
a  guest;  or  two  guests.  Lad  at  first  was  not  cer- 
tain which.  The  visible  guest  was  a  woman.  And, 
in  her  arms  she  carried  a  long  bundle  that  might 
have  been  anything  at  all. 

Long  as  was  the  bundle,  it  was  ridiculously  light. 
Or,  rather,  pathetically  light.  For  its  folds  con- 
tained a  child,  five  years  old;  a  child  that  ought  to 
have  weighed  more  than  forty  pounds  and  weighed 
barely  twenty.  A  child  with  a  wizened  little  old 
face,  and  with  a  skeleton  body  which  was  powerless 
from  the  waist  down. 

Six  months  earlier,  the  Baby  had  been  as  vigor- 
ous and  jolly  as  a  collie  pup.  Until  an  invisible 
Something  prowled  through  the  land,  laying  Its 


A  MIRACLE  OP  TWO  51 

finger-tips  on  thousands  of  such  jolly  and  vigorous 
youngsters,  as  frost's  fingers  are  laid  on  autumn 
flowers — and  with  the  same  hideous  effect. 

This  particular  Baby  had  not  died  of  the  plague, 
as  had  so  many  of  her  fellows.  At  least,  her  brain 
and  the  upper  half  of  her  body  had  not  died. 

Her  mother  had  been  counseled  to  try  mountain 
air  for  the  hopeless  little  invalid.  She  had  written 
to  her  distant  relative,  the  Mistress,  asking  leave 
to  spend  a  month  at  The  Place. 

Lad  viewed  the  arrival  of  the  adult  guest  with 
no  interest  and  with  less  pleasure.  He  stood, 
aloof,  at  one  side  of  the  veranda,  as  the  newcomer 
alighted  from  the  car. 

But,  when  the  Master  took  the  long  bundle  from 
her  arms  and  carried  it  up  the  steps,  Lad  waxed 
curious.  Not  only  because  the  Master  handled  his 
burden  so  carefully,  but  because  the  collie's  uncanny 
scent-power  told  him  all  at  once  that  it  was  human. 

Lad  had  never  seen  a  human  carried  in  this 
manner.  It  did  not  make  sense  to  him.  And  he 
stepped,  hesitantly,  forward  to  investigate. 

The  Master  laid  the  bundle  tenderly  on  the 
veranda  hammock-swing,  and  loosed  the  blanket- 
folds  that  swathed  it.  Lad  came  over  to  him,  and 
looked  down  into  the  pitiful  little  face. 

There  had  been  no  baby  at  The  Place  for  many 
a  year.  Lad  had  seldom  seen  one  at  such  close 
quarters.  But  now  the  sight  did  something  queer 
to  his  heart — the  big  heart  that  ever  went  out  to  th 


52  LAD:    A  DOG 

weak  and  defenseless,  the  heart  that  made  a  play- 
fully snapping  puppy  or  a  cranky  little  lapdog  as 
safe  from  his  terrible  jaws  as  was  Lady  herself. 

He  sniffed  in  friendly  fashion  at  the  child's 
pathetically  upturned  face.  Into  the  dull  baby-eyes, 
at  sight  of  him,  came  a  look  of  pleased  interest — 
the  first  that  had  crossed  their  blankness  for  many 
a  long  day.  Two  feeble  little  hands  reached  out 
and  buried  themselves  lovingly  in  the  mass  of  soft 
ruff  that  circled  Lad's  neck. 

The  dog  quivered  all  over,  from  nose  to  brush, 
with  joy  at  the  touch.  He  laid  his  great  head  down 
beside  the  drawn  cheek,  and  positively  reveled  in 
the  pain  the  tugging  fingers  were  inflicting  on  his 
sensitive  throat. 

In  one  instant,  Lad  had  widened  his  narrow  and 
hard-established  circle  of  Loved  Ones,  to  include 
this  half -dead  wisp  of  humanity. 

The  child's  mother  came  up  the  steps  in  the 
Master's  wake.  At  sight  of  the  huge  dog,  she 
halted  in  quick  alarm. 

"Look  out!"  she  shrilled.  "He  may  attack  her! 
Oh,  do  drive  him  away!" 

"Who?  Lad,"  queried  the  Mistress.  "Why,  Lad 
wouldn't  harm  a  hair  of  her  head  if  his  life  de- 
pended on  it!  See,  he  adores  her  already.  I 
never  knew  him  to  take  to  a  stranger  before.  And 
she  looks  brighter  and  happier,  too,  than  she  has 
looked  in  months.  Don't  make  her  cry  by  sending 
him  away  from  her." 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  53 

"But,"  insisted  the  woman,  "dogs  are  full  of 
germs.  I've  read  so.  He  might  give  her  some 
terrible " 

"Lad  is  just  as  clean  and  as  germless  as  I  am/' 
declared  the  Mistress,  with  some  warmth.  "There 
isn't  a  day  he  doesn't  swim  in  the  lake,  and  there 
isn't  a  day  I  don't  brush  him.  He's " 

"He's  a  collie,  though,"  protested  the  guest, 
looking  on  in  uneasy  distaste,  while  Baby  secured 
a  tighter  and  more  painful  grip  on  the  delighted 
dog's  ruff.  "And  I've  always  heard  collies  are 
awfully  treacherous.  Don't  you  find  them  so?" 

"If  we  did/'  put  in  the  Master,  who  had  heard 
that  same  asinine  question  until  it  sickened  him,  "if 
we  found  collies  were  treacherous,  we  wouldn't 
keep  them.  A  collie  is  either  the  best  dog  or  the 
worst  dog  on  earth.  Lad  is  the  best.  We  don't 
keep  the  other  kind.  I'll  call  him  away,  though, 
if  it  bothers  you  to  have  him  so  close  to  Baby. 
Come,  Lad!" 

Reluctantly,  the  dog  turned  to  obey  the  Law; 
glancing  back,  as  he  went,  at  the  adorable  new  idol 
he  had  acquired;  then  crossing  obediently  to  where 
the  Master  stood. 

The  Baby's  face  puckered  unhappily.  Her  pipe- 
stem  arms  went  out  toward  the  collie.  In  a  tired 
little  voice  she  called  after  him: 

"Dog!  Doggie!  Come  back  here,  right  away! 
I  love  you,  Dog !" 

Lad,  vibrating  with  eagerness,  glanced  up  at  the 


54  LAD:    A  DOG 

Master  for  leave  to  answer  the  call.  The  Master, 
in  turn,  looked  inquiringly  at  his  nervous  guest. 
Lad  translated  the  look.  And,  instantly,  he  felt 
an  unreasoning  hate  for  the  fussy  woman. 

The  guest  walked  over  to  her  weakly  gesticulating 
daughter  and  explained: 

"Dogs  aren't  nice  pets  for  sick  little  girls,  dear. 
They're  rough;  and  besides,  they  bite.  I'll  find 
Dolly  for  you  as  soon  as  I  unpack:" 

"Don't  want  Dolly,"  fretted  the  child.  "Want 
the  dog !  He  isn't  rough.  He  won't  bite.  Doggie ! 
I  love  you !  Come  here!" 

Lad  looked  up  longingly  at  the  Master,  his 
plumed  tail  a-wag,  his  ears  up,  his  eyes  dancing. 
One  hand  of  the  Master's  stirred  toward  the  ham- 
mock in  a  motion  so  imperceptible  that  none  but  a 
sharply  watchful  dog  could  have  observed  it. 

Lad  waited  for  no  second  bidding.  Quietly,  un- 
obtrusively, he  crossed  behind  the  guest,  and  stood 
beside  his  idol.  The  Baby  fairly  squealed  with 
rapture,  and  drew  his  silken  head  down  to  her  face. 

"Oh,  well !"  surrendered  the  guest,  sulkily.  "If 
she  won't  be  happy  any  other  way,  let  him  go  to 
her.  I  suppose  it's  safe,  if  you  people  say  so.  And 

it's  the  first  thing  she's  been  interested  in,  since 

No,  darling,"  she  broke  off,  sternly.  "You  shall 
not  kiss  him !  I  draw  the  line  at  that.  Here !  Let 
Mamma  rub  your  lips  with  her  handkerchief." 

"Dogs  aren't  made  to  be  kissed,"  said  the  Master, 
sharing,  however,  Lad's  disgust  at  the  lip-scrubbing 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  55 

process.  "But  she'll  come  to  less  harm  from  kissing 
the  head  of  a  clean  dog  than  from  kissing  the 
mouths  of  most  humans.  I'm  glad  she  likes  Lad. 
And  I'm  still  gladder  that  he  likes  her.  It's  almost 
the  first  time  he  ever  went  to  an  outsider  of  his 
own  accord." 

That  was  how  Lad's  idolatry  began.  And  that, 
too,  was  how  a  miserably  sick  child  found  a  new 
interest  in  life. 

Every  day,  from  morning  to  dusk,  Lad  was  with 
the  Baby.  Forsaking  his  immemorial  "cave" 
under  the  music-room  piano,  he  lay  all  night  out- 
side the  door  of  her  bedroom.  In  preference  even 
to  a  romp  through  the  forest  with  Lady,  he  would 
pace  majestically  alongside  the  invalid's  wheel- 
chair as  it  was  trundled  along  the  walks  or  up  and 
down  the  veranda. 

Forsaking  his  post  on  the  floor  at  the  left  of  the 
Master's  seat,  at  meals — a  place  that  had  been  his 
alone  since  puppyhood — he  lay  always  behind  the 
Baby's  table  couch.  This  to  the  vast  discomfort  of 
the  maid  who  had  to  step  over  him  in  circumnavi- 
gating the  board,  and  to  the  open  annoyance  of 
the  child's  mother. 

Baby,  as  the  days  went  on,  lost  none  of  her 
first  pleasure  in  her  shaggy  playmate.  To  her,  the 
dog  was  a  ceaseless  novelty.  She  loved  to  twist  and 
braid  the  great  white  ruff  on  his  chest,  to  toy 
with  his  sensitive  ears,  to  make  him  "speak"  or 
shake  hands  or  lie  down  or  stand  up  at  her  bidding. 


56  LAD:    A  DOG 

She  loved  to  play  a  myriad  of  intricate  games  with 
him — games  ranging  from  Beauty  and  the  Beast, 
to  Fairy  Princess  and  Dragon. 

Whether  as  Beast  (to  her  Beauty)  or  in  the  more 
complex  and  exacting  role  of  Dragon,  Lad  entered 
wholesouledly  into  every  such  game.  Of  course, 
he  always  played  his  part  wrong.  Equally,  of 
course,  Baby  always  lost  her  temper  at  his  stupidity, 
and  pummeled  him,  by  way  of  chastisement,  with 
her  nerveless  fists — a  punishment  Lad  accepted  with 
a  grin  of  idiotic  bliss. 

Whether  because  of  the  keenly  bracing  mountain 
air  or  because  of  her  outdoor  days  with  a  chum 
who  awoke  her  dormant  interest  in  life,  Baby  was 
growing  stronger  and  less  like  a  sallow  ghostling. 
And,  in  the  relief  of  noting  this  steady  improve- 
ment, her  mother  continued  to  tolerate  Lad's  chum- 
ship with  the  child,  although  she  had  never  lost  her 
own  first  unreasoning  fear  of  the  big  dog. 

Two  or  three  things  happened  to  revive  this 
foolish  dread.  One  of  them  occurred  about  a  week 
after  the  invalid's  arrival  at  The  Place. 

Lady,  being  no  fonder  of  guests  than  was  Lad, 
had  given  the  veranda  and  the  house  itself  a  wide 
berth.  But  one  day,  as  Baby  lay  in  the  hammock 
(trying  in  a  wordy  irritation  to  teach  Lad  the 
alphabet),  and  as  the  guest  sat  with  her  back  to 
them,  writing  letters,  Lady  trotted  around  the 
corner  of  the  porch. 

At  sight  of  the  hammock's  queer  occupant,  she 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  57 

paused,  and  stood  blinking  inquisitively.  Baby 
spied  the  graceful  gold-and- white  creature.  Push- 
ing Lad  to  one  side,  she  called,  imperiously: 

"Come  here,  new  Doggie.  You  pretty,  pretty 
Doggie!" 

Lady,  her  vanity  thus  appealed  to,  strolled  minc- 
ingly  forward.  Just  within  arm's  reach,  she  halted 
again.  Baby  thrust  out  one  hand,  and  seized  her 
by  the  ruff  to  draw  her  into  petting-distance. 

The  sudden  tug  on  Lady's  fur  was  as  nothing  to 
the  haulings  and  maulmgs  in  which  Lad  so  meekly 
reveled.  But  Lad  and  Lady  were  by  no  means 
alike,  as  I  think  I  have  said.  Boundless  patience 
and  a  chivalrous  love  for  the  Weak,  were  not  num- 
bered among  Lady's  erratic  virtues.  She  liked 
liberties  as  little  as  did  Lad;  and  she  had  a  far 
more  drastic  way  of  resenting  them. 

At  the  first  pinch  of  her  sensitive  skin  there  was 
an  instant  flash  of  gleaming  teeth,  accompanied  by 
a  nasty  growl  and  a  lightning-quick  forward  lunge 
of  the  dainty  gold-white  head.  As  the  wolf 
slashes  at  a  foe — and  as  no  animals  but  wolf  and 
collie  know  how  to — Lady  slashed  murderously  at 
the  thin  little  arm  that  sought  to  pull  her  along. 

And  Lad,  in  the  same  breath,  hurled  his  great 
bulk  between  his  mate  and  his  idol.  It  was  a  move 
unbelievably  swift  for  so  large  a  dog.  And  it 
served  its  turn. 

The  eye-tooth  slash  that  would  have  cut  the  little 


58  LAD:    A  DOG 

girl's  arm  to  the  bone,  sent  a  red  furrow  athwart 
Lad's  massive  shoulder. 

Before  Lady  could  snap  again,  or,  indeed,  could 
get  over  her  surprise  at  her  mate's  intervention,  Lad 
was  shouldering  her  off  the  edge  of  the  veranda 
steps.  Very  gently  he  did  this,  and  with  no  show 
of  teeth.  But  he  did  it  with  much  firmness. 

In  angry  amazement  at  such  rudeness  on  the  part 
of  her  usually  subservient  mate,  Lady  snarled 
ferociously,  and  bit  at  him. 

Just  then,  the  child's  mother,  roused  from  her 
letter-writing  by  the  turmoil,  came  rushing  to  her 
endangered  offspring's  rescue. 

"He  growled  at  Baby,"  she  reported  hysterically, 
as  the  noise  brought  the  Master  out  of  his  study 
and  to  the  veranda  on  the  run.  "He  growled  at 
her,  and  then  he  and  that  other  horrid  brute  got  to 
fighting,  and " 

"Pardon  me/'  interposed  the  Master,  calling  both 
dogs  to  him,  "but  Man  is  the  only  animal  to  mal- 
treat the  female  of  his  kind.  No  male  dog  would 
fight  with  Lady.  Much  less  would  Lad — Hello!" 
he  broke  off.  "Look  at  his  shoulder,  though !  That 
was  meant  for  Baby.  Instead  of  scolding  Lad,  you 
may  thank  him  for  saving  her  from  an  ugly  slash. 
I'll  keep  Lady  chained  up,  after  this." 

"But " 

"But,  with  Lad  beside  her,  Baby  is  in  just  about 
as  much  danger  as  she  would  be  with  a  guard  of 
forty  U.  S.  Regulars,"  went  on  the  Master.  "Take 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  59 

my  word  for  it.  Come  along,  Lady.  It's  the 
kennel  for  you  for  the  next  few  weeks,  old  girl. 
Lad,  when  I  get  back,  I'll  wash  that  shoulder  for 
you." 

With  a  sigh,  Lad  went  over  to  the  hammock  and 
lay  down,  heavily.  For  the  first  time  since  Baby's 
advent  at  The  Place,  he  was  unhappy — very,  very 
unhappy.  He  had  had  to  jostle  and  fend  off  Lady, 
whom  he  worshipped.  And  he  knew  it  would  be 
many  a  long  day  before  his  sensitively  tempera- 
mental mate  would  foygive  or  forget.  Meantime, 
so  far  as  Lady  was  concerned,  he  was  in  Coventry. 

And  just  because  he  had  saved  from  injury  a 
Baby  who  had  meant  no  harm  and  who  could  not 
help  herself !  Life,  all  a  once,  seemed  dismayingly 
complex  to  Lrd's  simple  soul. 

He  whimpe  :ed  a  little,  under  his  breath;  and 
lifted  his  head  toward.  Baby's  dangling  hand  for  a 
caress  that  might  help  make  things  easier.  But 
Baby  had  been  bitterly  chagrined  at  Lady's  recep- 
tion of  her  friendly  advances.  Lady  could  not  be 
punished  for  this.  But  Lad  could. 

She  slapped  the  lovingly  upthrust  muzzle  with 
all  her  feeble  force.  For  once,  Lad  was  not  amused 
by  the  castigation.  He  sighed,  a  second  time;  and 
curled  up  on  the  floor  beside  the  hammock,  in  a 
right  miserable  heap;  his  head  between  his  tiny 
forepaws,  his  great  sorrowful  eyes  abrim  with 
bewildered  grief. 

Spring  drowsed  into  early  summer.    And,  with 


60  LAD:    A  DOG 

the  passing  days,  Baby  continued  to  look  less  and 
less  like  an  atrophied  mummy,  and  more  like  a  thin, 
but  normal,  child  of  five.  She  ate  and  slept,  as 
she  had  not  done  for  many  a  month. 

The  lower  half  of  her  body  was  still  dead.  But 
there  was  a  faint  glow  of  pink  in  the  flat  cheeks, 
and  the  eyes  were  alive  once  more.  The  hands 
that  pulled  at  Lad,  in  impulsive  friendliness  or  in 
punishment,  were  stronger,  too.  Their  fur-tugs 
hurt  worse  than  at  first.  But  the  hurt  always  gave 
Lad  that  same  twinge  of  pleasure — a  twinge  that 
helped  to  ease  his  heart's  ache  over  the  defection 
of  Lady. 

On  a  hot  morning  in  early  June,  when  the  Mis- 
tress and  the  Master  had  driven  over  to  the  village 
for  the  mail,  the  child's  mother  wheeled  the  invalid 
chair  to  a  tree-roofed  nook  down  by  the  lake — a 
spot  whose  deep  shade  and  lush  long  grass  prom- 
ised more  coolness  than  did  the  veranda. 

It  was  just  the  spot  a  city-dweller  would  have 
chosen  for  a  nap — and  just  the  spot  through  which 
no  countryman  would  have  cared  to  venture,  at  that 
dry  season,  without  wearing  high  boots. 

Here,  not  three  days  earlier,  the  Master  had 
killed  a  copperhead  snake.  Here,  every  summer, 
during  the  late  June  mowing,  The  Place's  scythe- 
wielders  moved  with  glum  caution.  And  seldom 
did  their  progress  go  unmarked  by  the  scythe- 
severed  body  of  at  least  one  snake. 

The  Place,   for  the  most  part,  lay  on  hillside 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  61 

and  plateau,  free  from  poisonous  snakes  of  all 
kinds,  and  usually  free  from  mosquitoes  as  well. 
The  lawn,  close-shaven,  sloped  down  to  the  lake. 
To  one  side  of  it,  in  a  narrow  stretch  of  bottom- 
land, a  row  of  weeping  willows  pierced  the  loose 
stone  lake-wall. 

Here,  the  ground  was  seldom  bone-dry.  Here, 
the  grass  grew  rankest.  Here,  also,  driven  to 
water  by  the  drought,  abode  eft,  lizard  and  an  oc- 
casional snake,  finding  coolness  and  moisture  in  the 
long  grass,  and  a  thousand  hiding  places  amid  the 
stone-crannies  or  the  lake-wall. 

If  either  the  Mistress  or  the  Master  had  been  at 
home  on  this  morning,  the  guest  would  have  been 
warned  against  taking  Baby  there  at  all.  She 
would  have  been  doubly  warned  against  the  folly 
which  she  now  proceeded  to  commit — of  lifting 
the  child  from  the  wheel-chair,  and  placing  her  on 
a  spread  rug  in  the  grass,  with  her  back  to  the  low 
wall. 

The  rug,  on  its  mattress  of  lush  grasses,  was  soft. 
The  lake  breeze  stirred  the  lower  boughs  of  the 
willows.  The  air  was  pleasantly  cool  here,  and 
had  lost  the  dead  hotness  that  brooded  over  the 
higher  ground. 

The  guest  was  well  pleased  with  her  choice  of 
a  resting  place.  Lad  was  not. 

The  big  dog  had  been  growingly  uneasy  from 
the  time  the  wheel-chair  approached  the  lake-wall. 
Twice  he  put  himself  in  front  of  it;  only  to  be 


62  LAD:    A  DOG 

ordered  aside.  Once  the  wheels  hit  his  ribs  with 
jarring  impact.  As  Baby  was  laid  upon  her  grassy 
bed,  Lad  barked  loudly  and  pulled  at  one  end  of 
the  rug  with  his  teeth. 

The  guest  shook  her  parasol  at  him  and  ordered 
him  back  to  the  house.  Lad  obeyed  no  orders,  save 
those  of  his  two  deities.  Instead  of  slinking  away, 
he  sat  down  beside  the  child;  so  close  to  her  that 
his  ruff  pressed  against  her  shoulder.  He  did  not 
lie  down  as  usual,  but  sat — tulip  ears  erect,  dark 
eyes  cloudy  with  trouble ;  head  turning  slowly  from 
side  to  side,  nostrils  pulsing. 

To  a  human,  there  was  nothing  to  see  or  hear  or 
smell — other  than  the  cool  beauty  of  the  nook,  the 
soughing  of  the  breeze  in  the  willows,  the  soft  fra- 
grance of  a  June  morning.  To  a  dog,  there  were 
faint  rustling  sounds  that  were  not  made  by  the 
breeze.  There  were  equally  faint  and  elusive  scents 
that  the  human  nose  could  not  register.  Notably, 
a  subtle  odor  as  of  crushed  cucumbers.  (If  ever 
you  have  killed  a  pit-viper,  you  know  that  smell.) 

The  dog  was  worried.  He  was  uneasy.  His  un- 
easiness would  not  let  him  sit  still.  It  made  him 
fidget  and  shift  his  position;  and,  once  or  twice, 
growl  a  little  under  his  breath. 

Presently,  his  eyes  brightened,  and  his  brush 
began  to  thud  gently  on  the  rug-edge.  For,  a 
quarter  mile  above,  The  Place's  car  was  turning 
in  from  the  highway.  In  it  were  the  Mistress  and 
the  Master,  coming  home  with  the  mail.  Now 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  63 

everything  would  be  all  right.  And  the  onerous 
duties  of  guardianship  would  pass  to  more  capable 
hands. 

As  the  car  rounded  the  corner  of  the  house  and 
came  to  a  stop  at  the  front  door,  the  guest  caught 
sight  of  it.  Jumping  up  from  her  seat  on  the  rug, 
she  started  toward  it  in  quest  of  rnail.  So  hastily 
did  she  rise  that  she  dislodged  <>ne  of  the  wall's 
small  stones  and  sent  it  rattling  down  into  a  wide 
crevice  between  two  larger  rocks. 

She  did  not  heed  the  tinkle  of  stone  on  stone;  nor 
a  sharp  little  hiss  that  followed,  as  the  falling  mis- 
sile smote  the  coils  of  a  sleeping  copperhead  snake 
in  one  of  the  wall's  lowest  cavities.  But  Lad  heard 
it.  And  he  heard  the  slithering  of  scales  against 
rocksides,  as  the  snake  angrily  sought  new  sleeping 
quarters. 

The  guest  walked  away,  all  ignorant  of  what  she 
had  done.  And,  before  she  had  taken  three  steps, 
a  triangular  grayish-ruddy  head  was  pushed  out 
from  the  bottom  of  the  wall. 

Twistingly,  the  copperhead  glided  out  onto  the 
grass  at  the  very  edge  of  the  rug.  The  snake  was 
short,  and  thick,  and  dirty,  with  a  distinct  and  in- 
tricate pattern  interwoven  on  its  rough  upper  body. 
The  head  was  short,  flat,  wedge-shaped.  Between 
eye  and  nostril,  on  either  side,  was  the  sinister  "pin- 
hole,"  that  is  the  infallible  mark  of  the  poison-sac 
serpent. 

(The  rattlesnake  swarms  among  some  of  the 


64  LAD:    A  DOG 

stony  mountains  of  the  North  Jersey  hinterland; 
though  seldom,  nowadays,  does  it  venture  into  the 
valleys.  But  the  copperhead — twin  brother  in 
murder  to  the  rattler — still  infests  meadow  and 
lakeside.  Smaller,  fatter,  deadlier  than  the 
diamond-back,  it  gives  none  of  the  warning  which 
redeems  the  latter  from  complete  abhorrence.  It  is 
a  creature  as  evil  as  its  own  aspect — and  name. 
Copperhead  and  rattlesnake  are  the  only  pit-vipers 
left  now  between  Canada  and  Virginia.) 

Out  from  its  wall-cranny  oozed  the  reptile. 
Along  the  fringe  of  the  rug  it  moved  for  a  foot  or 
two;  then  paused  uncertain — perhaps  momentarily 
dazzled  by  the  light.  It  stopped  within  a  yard 
of  the  child's  wizened  little  hand  that  rested  idle  on 
the  rug.  Baby's  other  arm  was  around  Lad,  and 
her  body  was  between  him  and  the  snake. 

Lad,  with  a  shiver,  freed  himself  from  the  frail 
embrace  and  got  nervously  to  his  feet. 

There  are  two  things — and  perhaps  only  two 
things — of  which  the  best  type  of  thoroughbred 
collie  is  abjectly  afraid  and  from  which  he  will 
run  for  his  life.  One  is  a  mad  dog.  The  other  is 
a  poisonous  snake.  Instinct,  and  the  horror  of 
death,  warn  him  violently  away  from  both. 

At  stronger  scent,  and  then  at  sight  of  the  cop- 
perhead, Lad's  stout  heart  failed  him.  Gallantly 
had  he  attacked  human  marauders  who  had  invaded 
The  Place.  More  than  once,  in  dashing  fearless- 
ness, he  had  fought  with  dogs  larger  than  himself. 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  65 

With  a  d'Artagnan-like  gaiety  of  zest,  he  had 
tackled  and  deflected  a  bull  that  had  charged  head 
down  at  the  Mistress. 

Commonly  speaking,  he  knew  no  fear.  Yet  now 
he  was  afraid;  tremulously,  quakingly,  sickly 
afraid.  Afraid  of  the  deadly  thing  that  was  halt- 
ing within  three  feet  of  him,  with  only  the  Baby's 
fragile  body  as  a  barrier  between. 

Left  to  himself,  he  would  have  taken,  incon- 
tinently, to  his  heels.  With  the  lower  animal's  in- 
stinctive appeal  to  a  human  in  moments  of  danger, 
he  even  pressed  closer  to  the  helpless  child  at  his 
side,  as  if  seeking  the  protection  of  her  humanness. 
A  great  wave  of  cowardice  shook  the  dog  from 
foot  to  head. 

The  Master  had  alighted  from  the  car;  and  was 
coming  down  the  hill,  toward  his  guest,  with  several 
letters  in  his  hand.  Lad  cast  a  yearning  look  at 
him.  But  the  Master,  he  knew,  was  too  far  away 
to  be  summoned  in  time  by  even  the  most  imperious 
bark. 

And  it  was  then  that  the  child's  straying  gaze 
fell  on  the  snake. 

With  a  gasp  and  a  shudder,  Baby  shrank  back 
against  Lad.  At  least,  the  upper  half  of  her  body 
moved  away  from  the  peril.  Her  legs  and  feet  lay 
inert.  The  motion  jerked  the  rug's  fringe  an  inch 
or  two,  disturbing  the  copperhead.  The  snake 
coiled,  and  drew  back  its  three-cornered  head,  the 
forklike  maroon  tongue  playing  fitfully. 


66  LAD:    A  DOG 

With  a  cry  of  panic-fright  at  her  own  impotence 
to  escape,  the  child  caught  up  a  picture  book  from 
the  rug  beside  her,  and  flung  it  at  the  serpent.  The 
fluttering  book  missed  its  mark.  But  it  served  its 
purpose  by  giving  the  copperhead  reason  to  believe 
itself  attacked. 

Back  went  the  triangular  head,  farther  than  ever ; 
and  then  flashed  forward.  The  double  move  was 
made  in  the  minutest  fraction  of  a  second. 

A  full  third  of  the  squat  reddish  body  going  with 
the  blow,  the  copperhead  struck.  It  struck  for  the 
thin  knee,  not  ten  inches  away  from  its  own  coiled 
body.  The  child  screamed  again  in  mortal  terror. 

Before  the  scream  could  leave  the  fear-chalked 
lips,  Baby  was  knocked  flat  by  a  mighty  and  hairy 
shape  that  lunged  across  her  toward  her  foe. 

And  the  copperhead's  fangs  sank  deep  in  Lad's 
nose. 

He  gave  no  sign  of  pain ;  but  leaped  back.  As  he 
sprang  his  jaws  caught  Baby  by  the  shoulder.  The 
keen  teeth  did  not  so  much  as  bruise  her  soft  flesh 
as  he  half -dragged,  half -threw  her  into  the  grass 
behind  him. 

Athwart  the  rug  again,  Lad  launched  himself 
bodily  upon  the  coiled  snake. 

As  he  charged,  the  swift-striking  fangs  found 
a  second  mark — this  time  in  the  side  of  his  jaw. 

An  instant  later  the  copperhead  lay  twisting  and 
writhing  and  thrashing  impotently  among  the  grass- 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  67 

roots ;  its  back  broken,  and  its  body  seared  almost  in 
two  by  a  slash  of  the  dog's  saber-like  tusk. 

The  fight  was  over.  The  menace  was  past.  The 
diild  was  safe. 

And,  in  her  rescuer's  muzzle  and  jaw  were  two 
deposits  of  mortal  poison. 

Lad  stood  panting  above  the  prostrate  and  cry- 
ing Baby.  His  work  was  done;  and  instinct  told 
him  at  what  cost.  But  his  idol  was  unhurt  and 
he  was  happy.  He  bent  down  to  lick  the  convulsed 
little  face  in  mute  plea  for  pardon  for  his  needful 
roughness  toward  her. 

But  he  was  denied  even  this  tiny  consolation. 
Even  as  he  leaned  downward  he  was  knocked 
prone  to  earth  by  a  blow  that  all  but  fractured  his 
skull. 

At  the  child's  first  terrified  cry,  her  mother  had 
turned  back.  Nearsighted  and  easily  confused,  she 
had  seen  only  that  the  dog  had  knocked  her  sick 
baby  flat,  and  was  plunging  across  her  body.  Next, 
she  had  seen  him  grip  Baby's  shoulder  with  his 
teeth  and  drag  her,  shrieking,  along  the  ground. 

That  was  enough.  The  primal  mother-instinct 
(that  is  sometimes  almost  as  strong  in  woman  as 
in  lioness — or  cow),  was  aroused.  Fearless  of 
danger  to  herself,  the  guest  rushed  to  her  child's 
rescue.  As  she  ran  she  caught  her  thick  parasol 
by  the  ferule  and  swung  it  aloft. 

Down  came  the  agate-handle  of  the  sunshade 
on  the  head  of  the  dog.  The  handle  was  as  large 


68  LAD:    A  DOG 

as  a  woman's  fist,  and  was  composed  of  a  single 
stone,  set  in  four  silver  claws. 

As  Lad  staggered  to  his  feet  after  the  terrific 
blow  felled  him,  the  impromptu  weapon  arose  once 
more  in  air,  descending  this  time  on  his  broad 
shoulders. 

Lad  did  not  cringe— did  not  seek  to  dodge  or 
run — did  not  show  his  teeth.  This  mad  assailant 
was  a  woman.  Moreover,  she  was  a  guest,  and  as 
such,  sacred  under  the  Guest  Law  which  he  had 
mastered  from  puppyhood. 

Had  a  man  raised  his  hand  against  Lad — a  man 
other  than  the  Master  or  a  guest — there  would 
right  speedily  have  been  a  case  for  a  hospital,  if  not 
for  the  undertaker.  But,  as  things  now  were,  he 
could  not  resent  the  beating. 

His  head  and  shoulders  quivered  under  the  force 
and  the  pain  of  the  blows.  But  his  splendid  body 
did  not  cower.  And  the  woman,  wild  with  fear 
and  mother-love,  continued  to  smite  with  all  her 
random  strength. 

Then  came  the  rescue. 

At  the  first  blow  the  child  had  cried  out  in 
fierce  protest  at  her  pet's  ill-treatment.  Her  cry 
went  unheard. 

"Mother!'*  she  shrieked,  her  high  treble  cracked 
with  anguish.  "Mother!  Don't!  Don't!  He  kept 
the  snake  from  eating  me!  He !" 

The  frantic  woman  still  did  not  heed.  Each  suc- 
cessive blow  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  little  onlooker's 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  69 

own  bare  heart.  And  Baby,  under  the  stress,  went 
quite  mad. 

Scrambling  to  her  feet,  in  crazy  zeal  to  protect 
her  beloved  playmate,  she  tottered  forward  three 
steps,  and  seized  her  mother  by  the  skirt. 

At  the  touch  the  woman  looked  down.  Then 
her  face  went  yellow-white;  and  the  parasol  clat- 
tered unnoticed  to  the  ground. 

For  a  long  instant  the  mother  stood  thus;  her 
eyes  wide  and  glazed,  her  mouth  open,  her  cheeks 
ashy — staring  at  the  swaying  child  who  clutched 
her  dress  for  support  and  who  was  sobbing  forth 
incoherent  pleas  for  the  dog. 

The  Master  had  broken  into  a  run  and  into  a 
flood  of  wordless  profanity  at  sight  of  his  dog's 
punishment.  Now  he  came  to  an  abrupt  halt  and 
was  glaring  dazedly  at  the  miracle  before  him. 

The  child  had  risen  and  had  walked. 

The  child  had  walked! — she  whose  lower  motive- 
centers,  the  wise  doctors  had  declared,  were  hope- 
lessly paralyzed — she  who  could  never  hope  to 
twitch  so  much  as  a  single  toe  or  feel  any  sensation 
from  the  hips  downward!  ' 

Small  wonder  that  both  guest  and  Master  seemed 
to  have  caught,  for  the  moment,  some  of  the 
paralysis  that  so  magically  departed  from  the 
invalid ! 

And  yet — as  a  corps  of  learned  physicians  later 
agreed — there  was  no  miracle — no  magic — about  it. 
Baby's  was  not  the  first,  nor  the  thousandth  case 


70  LAD:    A  DOG 

in  pathologic  history,  in  which  paralyzed  sensory 
powers  had  been  restored  to  their  normal  functions 
by  means  of  a  shock. 

The  child  had  had  no  malformation,  no  accident, 
to  injure  the  spine  or  the  co-ordination  between 
limbs  and  brain.  A  long  illness  had  left  her  power- 
less. Country  air  and  new  interest  in  life  had 
gradually  built  up  wasted  tissues.  A  shock  had  re- 
established communication  between  brain  and  lower 
body — a  communication  that  had  been  suspended; 
not  broken. 

When,  at  last,  there  was  room  in  any  of  the 
human  minds  for  aught  but  blank  wonder  and 
gratitude,  the  joyously  weeping  mother  was  made 
to  listen  to  the  child's  story  of  the  fight  with  the 
snake — a  story  corroborated  by  the  Master's  find  of 
the  copperhead's  half-severed  body. 

"I'll — I'll  get  down  on  my  knees  to  that  heaven- 
sent dog,"  sobbed  the  guest,  "and  apologize  to  him. 
Oh,  I  wish  some  of  you  would  beat  me  as  I  beat 
him!  I'd  feel  so  much  better!  Where  is  he?" 

The  question  brought  no  answer.  Lad  had  van- 
ished. Nor  could  eager  callings  and  searchings 
bring  him  to  view.  The  Master,  returning  from  a 
shout-punctuated  hunt  through  the  forest,  made 
Baby  tell  her  story  all  over  again.  Then  he  nodded. 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  feeling  a  ludicrously 
unmanly  desire  to  cry.  "I  see  how  it  was.  The 
snake  must  have  bitten  him,  at  least  once.  Prob- 
ably oftener,  and  he  knew  what  that  meant.  Lad 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  71 

knows  everything — knew  everything,  I  mean.  If 
he  had  known  a  little  less  he'd  have  been  human. 
But — if  he'd  been  human,  he  probably  wouldn't 
have  thrown  away  his  life  for  Baby." 

"Thrown  away  his  life,"  repeated  the  guest 
"I — I  don't  understand.  Surely  I  didn't  strike  him 
hard  enough  to " 

"No,"  returned  the  Master,  "but  the  snake  did." 

"You  mean,  he  has ?" 

"I  mean  it  is  the  nature  of  all  animals  to  crawl 
away,  alone,  into  the  forest  to  die.  They  are  more 
considerate  than  we.  They  try  to  cause  no  further 
trouble  to  those  they  have  loved.  Lad  got  his  death 
from  the  copperhead's  fangs.  He  knew  it.  And 
while  we  were  all  taken  up  with  the  wonder  of 
Baby's  cure,  he  quietly  went  away — to  die." 

The  Mistress  got  up  hurriedly,  and  left  the  room. 
She  loved  the  great  dog,  as  she  loved  few  humans. 
The  guest  dissolved  into  a  flood  of  sloppy  tears. 

"And  I  beat  him,"  she  wailed.  "I  beat  him — 
horribly!  And  all  the  time  he  was  dying  from  the 
poison  he  had  saved  my  child  from  J  Oh,  I'll  never 
forgive  myself  for  this,  the  longest  day  I  live." 

"The  longest  day  is  a  long  day,"  drily  com- 
mented the  Master.  "And  self-forgiveness  is  the 
easiest  of  all  lessons  to  learn.  After  all,  Lad  was 
only  a  dog.  That's  why  he  is  dead." 

The  Place's  atmosphere  tingled  with  jubilation 
over  the  child's  cure.  Her  uncertain,  but  always 


72  LAD:    A  DOG 

successful,    efforts   at    walking    were   an   hourly 
delight. 

But,  through  the  general  joy,  the  Mistress  and 
the  Master  could  not  always  keep  their  faces  bright. 
Even  the  guest  mourned  frequently,  and  loudly,  and 
eloquently  the  passing  of  Lad.  And  Baby  was 
openly  inconsolable  at  the  loss  of  her  chum. 

At  dawn  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  the 
Master  let  himself  silently  out  of  the  house,  for 
his  usual  before-breakfast  cross-country  tramp — a 
tramp  on  which,  for  years,  Lad  had  always  been  his 
companion.  Heavy-hearted,  the  Master  prepared 
to  set  forth  alone. 

As  he  swung  shut  the  veranda  door  behind  him, 
Something  arose  stiffly  from  a  porch  rug — Some- 
thing the  Master  looked  at  in  a  daze  of  unbelief. 

It  was  a  dog — yet  no  such  dog  as  had  ever  before 
sullied  the  cleanness  of  The  Place's  well-scoured 
veranda. 

The  animal's  body  was  lean  to  emaciation.  The 
head  was  swollen — though,  apparently,  the  swelling 
had  begun  to  recede.  The  fur,  from  spine  to  toe, 
from  nose  to  tail-tip,  was  one  solid  and  shapeless 
mass  of  caked  mud. 

The  Master  sat  down  very  suddenly  on  the 
veranda  floor  beside  the  dirt-encrusted  brute,  and 
caught  it  in  his  arms,  sputtering  disjointedly: 

"Lad! — Laddie!— Old  friend!  You're  alive 
again !  You're — you're — alive!" 

Yes,  Lad  had  known  enough  to  creep  away  to 


A  MIRACLE  OF  TWO  73 

the  woods  to  die.  But,  thanks  to  the  wolf -strain  in 
his  collie  blood,  he  had  also  known  how  to  do 
something  far  wiser  than  die. 

Three  days  of  self -burial,  to  the  very  nostrils,  in 
the  mysteriously  healing  ooze  of  the  marshes, 
behind  the  forest,  had  done  for  him  what  such 
mud-baths  have  done  for  a  million  wild  creatures. 
It  had  drawn  out  the  viper-poison  and  had  left 
him  whole  again — thin,  shaky  on  the  legs,  slightly 
swollen  of  head — but  whole. 

"He's— he's  awfully  dirty,  though!  Isn't  he?" 
commented  the  guest,  when  an  idiotic  triumph-yell 
from  the  Master  had  summoned  the  whole  family, 
in  sketchy  attire,  to  the  veranda.  "Awfully  dirty 
and " 

"Yes,"  curtly  assented  the  Master,  Lad's  head 
between  his  caressing  hands.  "  'Awfully  dirty.' 
That's  why  he's  still  alive/' 


CHAPTER  IV 
HIS  LITTLE  SON 

ED'S  mate  Lady  was  the  only  one  of  the 
Little  People  about  The  Place  who  refused 
to  look  on  Lad  with  due  reverence.  In  her 
frolic-moods  she  teased  him  unmercifully;  in  a 
prettily  imperious  way  she  bossed  and  bullied  him 
— for  all  of  which  Lad  adored  her.  He  had  other 
reasons,  too,  for  loving  Lady — not  only  because 
she  was  dainty  and  beautiful,  and  was  caressingly 
fond  of  him,  but  because  he  had  won  her  in  fair 
mortal  combat  with  the  younger  and  showier 
Knave. 

For  a  time  after  Knave's  routing,  Lad  was  bliss- 
fully happy  in  Lady's  undivided  comradeship.  To- 
gether they  ranged  the  forests  beyond  The  Place 
in  search  of  rabbits.  Together  they  sprawled 
shoulder  to  shoulder  on  the  disreputable  old  fur 
rug  in  front  of  the  living-room  fire.  Together  they 
did  joyous  homage  to  their  gods,  the  Mistress  and 
the  Master. 

Then  in  the  late  summer  a  new  rival  appeared — 
to  be  accurate,  three  rivals.  And  they  took  up  all 
of  Lady's  time  and  thought  and  love.  Poor  old 

74 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  75 

Lad  was  made  to  feel  terribly  out  in  the  cold.  The 
trio  of  rivals  that  had  so  suddenly  claimed  Lady's 
care  were  fuzzy  and  roly-poly,  and  about  the  size 
of  month-old  kittens.  In  brief,  they  were  three 
thoroughbred  collie  puppies. 

Two  of  them  were  tawny  brown,  with  white  fore- 
paws  and  chests.  The  third  was  not  like  Lad  in 
color,  but  like  the  mother — at  least,  all  of  him 
not  white  was  of  the  indeterminate  yellowish 
mouse-gray  which,  at  three  months  or  earlier,  turns 
to  pale  gold. 

When  they  were  barely  a  fortnight  old — almost 
as  soon  as  their  big  mournful  eyes  opened — the  two 
brown  puppies  died.  There  seemed  no  particular 
reason  for  their  death,  except  the  fact  that  a  collie 
is  always  the  easiest  or  else  the  most  impossible 
breed  of  dog  to  raise. 

The  fuzzy  grayish  baby  alone  was  left — the  puppy 
which  was  soon  to  turn  to  white  and  gold.  The 
Mistress  named  him  "Wolf." 

Upon  Baby  Wolf  the  mother-dog  lavished  a 
ridiculous  lot  of  attention — so  much  that  Lad  was 
miserably  lonely.  The  great  collie  would  try  with 
pathetic  eagerness,  a  dozen  times  a  day,  to  lure 
his  mate  into  a  woodland  ramble  or  into  a  romp 
on  the  lawn,  but  Lady  met  his  wistful  advances 
with  absorbed  indifference  or  with  a  snarl.  Indeed 
when  Lad  ventured  overnear  the  fuzzy  baby,  he 
was  warned  off  by  a  querulous  growl  from  the 
mother  or  by  a  slash  of  her  shiny  white  teeth. 


76  LAD:    A  DOG 

Lad  could  not  at  all  understand  it.  He  felt  no 
particular  interest — only  a  mild  and  disapproving 
curiosity — in  the  shapeless  little  whimpering  ball  of 
fur  that  nestled  so  helplessly  against  his  beloved 
mate's  side.  He  could  not  understand  the  mother- 
love  that  kept  Lady  with  Wolf  all  day  and  all  night. 
It  was  an  impulse  that  meant  nothing  to  Lad. 

After  a  week  or  two  of  fruitless  effort  to  win 
back  Lady's  interest,  Lad  coldly  and  wretchedly 
gave  up  the  attempt.  He  took  long  solitary  walks 
by  himself  in  the  forest,  retired  for  hours  at  a 
time  to  sad  brooding  in  his  favorite  "cave"  under 
the  living-room  piano,  and  tried  to  console  himself 
by  spending  all  the  rest  of  his  day  in  the  company 
of  the  Mistress  and  the  Master.  And  he  came 
thoroughly  to  disapprove  of  Wolf.  Recognizing 
the  baby  intruder  as  the  cause  of  Lady's  estrange- 
ment from  himself,  he  held  aloof  from  the  puppy. 

The  latter  was  beginning  to  emerge  from  his 
newborn  shapelessness.  His  coat's  texture  was 
changing  from  fuzz  to  silk.  Its  color  was  turning 
from  gray  into  yellow.  His  blunt  little  nose  was 
lengthening  and  growing  thin  and  pointed.  His 
butter-ball  body  was  elongating,  and  his  huge  feet 
and  legs  were  beginning  to  shape  up.  He  looked 
more  like  a  dog  now,  and  less  like  an  animated 
muff.  Also  within  Wolf's  youthful  heart  awoke 
the  devil  of  mischief,  the  keen  urge  of  play.  He 
found  Lady  a  pleasant-enough  playfellow  up  to  a 
certain  point.  But  a  painfully  sharp  pinch  from  her 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  77 

teeth  or  a  reproving  and  breath-taking  slap  from 
one  of  her  forepaws  was  likely  to  break  up  every 
game  that  she  thought  had  gone  far  enough;  when 
Wolf's  clownish  roughness  at  length  got  on  her 
hair-trigger  nerves. 

So,  in  search  of  an  additional  playmate,  the 
frolicsome  puppy  turned  to  Lad,  only  to  find  that 
Lad  would  not  play  with  him  at  all.  Lad  made 
it  very,  very  clear  to  everyone — except  to  the  fool 
puppy  himself — that  he  had  no  desire  to  romp  or 
to  associate  in  any  way  with  this  creature  which 
had  ousted  him  from  Lady's  heart!  Being  cursed 
with  a  soul  too  big  and  gentle  to  let  him  harm 
anything  so  helpless  as  Wolf,  he  did  not  snap  or 
growl,  as  did  Lady,  when  the  puppy  teased.  He 
merely  walked  away  in  hurt  dignity. 

Wolf  had  a  positive  genius  for  tormenting  Lad. 
The  huge  collie,  for  instance,  would  be  snoozing 
away  a  hot  hour  on  the  veranda  or  under  the 
wistaria  vines.  Down  upon  him,  from  nowhere  in 
particular,  would  pounce  Wolf. 

The  puppy  would  seize  his  sleeping  father  by 
the  ear,  and  drive  his  sharp  little  milk-teeth  fiercely 
into  the  flesh.  Then  he  would  brace  himself  and 
pull  backward,  possibly  with  the  idea  of  dragging 
Lad  along  the  ground. 

Lad  would  wake  in  pain,  would  rise  in  dignified 
unhappiness  to  his  feet  and  start  to  walk  off — the 
puppy  still  hanging  to  his  ear.  As  Wolf  was  a 
collie  and  not  a  bulldog,  he  would  lose  his  grip  as 


78  LAD:    A  DOG 

his  fat  little  body  left  the  ground.  Then,  at  a 
clumsy  gallop,  he  would  pursue  Lad,  throwing  him- 
self against  his  father's  forelegs  and  nipping  the 
slender  ankles.  All  this  was  torture  to  Lad,  and 
dire  mortification  too — especially  if  humans  chanced 
to  witness  the  scene.  Yet  never  did  he  retaliate; 
he  simply  got  out  of  the  way. 

Lad,  nowadays,  used  to  leave  half  his  dinner 
uneaten,  and  he  took  to  moping  in  a  way  that  is 
not  good  for  dog  or  man.  For  the  moping  had 
in  it  no  ill-temper — nothing  but  heartache  at  his 
mate's  desertion,  and  a  weary  distaste  for  the 
puppy's  annoying  antics.  It  was  bad  enough  for 
Wolf  to  have  supplanted  him  in  Lady's  affection, 
without  also  making  his  life  a  burden  and  humil- 
iating him  in  the  eyes  of  his  gods. 

Therefore  Lad  moped.  Lady  remained  ner- 
vously fussy  over  her  one  child.  And  Wolf  con- 
tinued to  be  a  lovable,  but  unmitigated,  pest.  The 
Mistress  and  the  Master  tried  in  every  way  to  make 
up  to  Lad  for  the  positive  and  negative  afflictions 
he  was  enduring,  but  the  sorrowing  dog's  unhap- 
piness  grew  with  the  days. 

Then  one  November  morning  Lady  met  Wolf's 
capering  playfulness  with  a  yell  of  rage  so  savage 
as  to  send  the  puppy  scampering  away  in  mortal 
terror,  and  to  bring  the  Master  out  from  his  study 
on  a  run.  For  no  normal  dog  gives  that  hideous 
yell  except  in  racking  pain  or  in  illness;  and  mere 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  79 

pain  could  not  wring  such  a  sound  from  a  thor- 
oughbred. 

The  Master  called  Lady  over  to  him.  Sullenly 
she  obeyed,  slinking  up  to  him  in  surly  unwilling- 
ness. Her  nose  was  hot  and  dry;  her  soft  brown 
eyes  were  glazed,  their  whites  a  dull  red.  Her 
dense  coat  was  tumbled. 

After  a  quick  examination,  the  Master  shut  her 
into  a  kennel-room  and  telephoned  for  a  veterinary. 

"She  is  sickening  for  the  worst  form  of  dis- 
temper," reported  the  vet*  an  hour  later,  "perhaps 
for  something  worse.  Dogs  seldom  get  distemper 
after  they're  a  year  old,  but  when  they  do  it's 
dangerous.  Better  let  me  take  her  over  to  my 
hospital  and  isolate  her  there.  Distemper  runs 
through  a  kennel  faster  than  cholera  through  a 
plague-district.  I  may  be  able  to  cure  her  in  a 
month  or  two — or  I  may  not.  Anyhow,  there's 
no  use  in  risking  your  other  dogs'  lives  by  leaving 
her  here." 

So  it  was  that  Lad  saw  his  dear  mate  borne 
away  from  him  in  the  tonneau  of  a  strange  man's 
car. 

Lady  hated  to  go.  She  whimpered  and  hung 
back  as  the  vet'  lifted  her  aboard.  At  sound  of 
her  whimper  Lad  started  forward,  head  low,  lips 
writhing  back  from  his  clenched  teeth,  his  shaggy 
throat  vibrant  with  growls.  At  a  sharp  word  of 
command  from  the  Master,  he  checked  his  onset 
and  stood  uncertain.  He  looked  at  his  departing 


80  LAD:    A  DOG 

mate,  his  dark  eyes  abrim  with  sorrow,  then 
glanced  at  the  Master  in  an  agony  of  appeal. 

"It's  all  right,  Laddie,"  the  Master  tried  to  con- 
sole him,  stroking  the  dog's  magnificent  head  as 
he  spoke.  "It's  all  right.  It's  the  only  chance  of 
saving  her." 

Lad  did  not  grasp  the  words,  but  their  tone  was 
reassuring.  It  told  him,  at  least,  that  this  kidnap- 
ing was  legal  and  must  not  be  prevented.  Sor- 
rowfully he  watched  the  chugging  car  out  of  sight, 
up  the  drive.  Then  with  a  sigh  he  walked  heavily 
back  to  his  "cave"  beneath  the  piano. 

Lad,  alone  of  The  Place's  dogs,  was  allowed  to 
sleep  in  the  house  at  night,  and  even  had  free  access 
to  that  dog-forbidden  spot,  the  dining-room.  Next 
morning,  as  soon  as  the  doors  were  opened,  he 
dashed  out  in  search  of  Lady.  With  some  faint 
hope  that  she  might  have  been  brought  back  in 
the  night,  he  ransacked  every  corner  of  The  Place 
for  her. 

He  did  not  find  Lady.  But  Wolf  very  promptly 
found  Lad.  Wolf  was  lonely,  too — terribly 
lonely.  He  had  just  spent  the  first  solitary  night 
of  his  three-month  life.  He  missed  the  furry  warm 
body  into  whose  shelter  he  had  always  cuddled  for 
sleep.  He  missed  his  playmate — the  pretty  mother 
who  had  been  his  fond  companion. 

There  are  few  things  so  mournful  as  the  eyes 
of  even  the  happiest  collie  pup;  this  morning,  lone- 
liness had  intensified  the  melancholy  expression  in 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  81 

Wolf's  eyes.  But  at  sight  of  Lad,  the  puppy  gam- 
boled forward  with  a  falsetto  bark  of  joy.  The 
world  was  not  quite  empty,  after  all.  Though  his 
mother  had  cruelly  absented  herself,  here  was  a 
playfellow  that  was  better  than  nothing.  And  up 
to  Lad  frisked  the  optimistic  little  chap. 

Lad  saw  him  coming.  The  older  dog  halted  and 
instinctively  turned  aside  to  avoid  the  lively  little 
nuisance.  Then,  halfway  around,  he  stopped  and 
turned  back  to  face  the  puppy. 

Lady  was  gone — gone,  perhaps,  forever.  And 
all  that  was  left  to  remind  Lad  of  her  was  this 
bumptious  and  sharp-toothed  little  son  of  hers. 
Lady  had  loved  the  youngster — Lady,  whom  Lad 
so  loved.  Wolf  alone  was  left;  and  Wolf  was  in 
-some  mysterious  way  a  part  of  Lady. 

So,  instead  of  making  his  escape  as  the  pest 
cantered  toward  him,  Lad  stood  where  he  was. 
Wolt  bounded  upward  and  as  usual  nipped  merrily 
at  one  of  Lad's  ears.  Lad  did  not  shake  off  his 
tormentor  and  stalk  away.  In  spite  of  the  pain 
to  the  sensitive  flesh,  he  remained  quiet,  looking 
down  at  the  joyful  puppy  with  a  sort  of  sorrowing 
friendliness.  He  seemed  to  realize  that  Wolf,  too,, 
was  lonely  and  that  the  little  dog  was  helpless. 

Tired  of  biting  an  unprotesting  ear,  Wolf  dived 
for  Lad's  white  forelegs,  gnawing  happily  at  them 
with  a  playfully  unconscious  throwback  to  his  wolf 
ancestors  who  sought  thus  to  disable  an  enemy  by 
breaking  the  foreleg  bone.  For  all  seemingly  aim- 


82  LAD:    A  DOG 

less  puppy-play  had  its  origin  in  some  ancestral 
custom. 

Lad  bore  this  new  bother  unflinchingly.  Pres- 
ently Wolf  left  off  the  sport.  Lad  crossed  to  the 
veranda  and  lay  down.  The  puppy  trotted  over 
to  him  and  stood  for  a  moment  with  ears  cocked 
and  head  on  one  side  as  if  planning  a  new  attack 
on  his  supine  victim;  then  with  a  little  satisfied 
whimper,  he  curled  up  close  against  his  father's 
shaggy  side  and  went  to  sleep. 

Lad  gazed  down  at  the  slumberer  in  some  per- 
plexity. He  seemed  even  inclined  to  resent  the 
familiarity  of  being  used  for  a  pillow.  Then,  noting 
that  the  fur  on  the  top  of  the  puppy's  sleepy  head 
was  rumpled,  Lad  bent  over  and  began  softly  to 
lick  back  the  tousled  hair  into  shape  with  his 
curving  tongue — his  raspberry-pink  tongue  with  the 
single  queer  blue-black  blot  midway  on  its  surface. 
The  puppy  mumbled  drowsily  in  his  sleep  and 
nestled  more  snugly  to  his  new  protector. 

And  thus  Lad  assumed  formal  guardianship  of 
his  obstreperous  little  son.  It  was  a  guardianship 
more  staunch  by  far  than  Lady's  had  been  of  late. 
For  animal  mothers  early  wear  out  their  zealously 
self-sacrificing  love  for  their  young.  By  the  time 
the  latter  are  able  to  shift  for  themselves,  the 
maternal  care  ceases.  And,  later  on,  the  once-in- 
separable relationship  drops  completely  out  of 
mind. 

Paternity,  among  dogs,  is,  from  the  very  first, 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  83 

no  tie  at  all.  Lad,  probably,  had  no  idea  of  his 
relationship  to  his  new  ward.  His  adoption  of 
Wolf  was  due  solely  to  his  own  love  for  Lady  and 
to  the  big  heart  and  soul  that  stirred  him  into  pity 
for  anything  helpless. 

Lad  took  his  new  duties  very  seriously  indeed. 
He  not  only  accepted  the  annoyance  of  Wolf's  un- 
divided teasing,  but  he  assumed  charge  of  the 
puppy's  education  as  well — this  to  the  amusement 
of  everyone  on  The  Place.  But  everyone's  amuse- 
ment was  kept  from  Lad.  The  sensitive  dog 
would  rather  have  been  whipped  than  laughed  at. 
So  both  the  Mistress  and  Master  watched  the  edu- 
cational process  with  outwardly  straight  faces. 

A  puppy  needs  an  unbelievable  amount  of  edu- 
cating. It  is  a  task  to  wear  threadbare  the  teacher's 
patience  and  to  do  all  kinds  of  things  to  the  temper. 
Small  wonder  that  many  humans  lose  patience  and 
temper  during  the  process  and  idiotically  resort  to 
the  whip,  to  the  boot-toe  and  to  bellowing — in  which 
case  the  puppy  is  never  decently  educated,  but 
emerges  from  the  process  with  a  cowed  and  broken 
spirit  or  with  an  incurable  streak  of  meanness  that 
renders  him  worthless. 

Time,  patience,  firmness,  wisdom,  temper-con- 
trol, gentleness — these  be  the  six  absolute  essentials 
for  training  a  puppy.  Happy  the  human  who  is 
blessed  with  any  three  of  these  qualities.  Lad, 
being  only  a  dog,  was  abundantly  possessed  of  all 
six.  And  he  had  need  of  them. 


84  LAD:    A  DOG 

To  begin  with,  Wolf  had  a  joyous  yearning  to 
tear  up  or  bury  every  portable  thing  that  could 
be  buried  or  torn.  He  had  a  craze  for  destruction. 
A  dropped  lace  handkerchief,  a  cushion  left  on  the 
grass,  a  book  or  a  hat  lying  on  a  veranda-chair — 
these  and  a  thousand  other  things  he  looked  on 
as  treasure-trove,  to  be  destroyed  as  quickly  and 
as  delightedly  as  possible. 

He  also  enjoyed  taking  a  flying  leap  onto  the 
face  or  body  of  any  hammock-sleeper.  He  would 
howl  long  and  lamentably,  nearly  every  night,  at 
the  moon.  If  the  night  were  moonless,  he  howled 
on  general  principles.  He  thrilled  with  bliss  at  a 
chance  to  harry  and  terrify  the  chickens  or  pea- 
cocks or  pigeons  or  any  others  of  The  Place's  Little 
People  that  were  safe  prey  for  him.  He  tried  this 
form  of  bullying  once — only  once — on  the  Mis- 
tress' temperamental  gray  cat,  Peter  Grimm.  For 
the  rest  of  the  day  Wolf  nursed  a  scratched  nose 
and  a  torn  ear — which,  for  nearly  a  wreek,  taught 
him  to  give  all  cats  a  wide  berth;  or,  at  most,  to 
bark  harrowingly  at  them  from  a  safe  distance. 

Again,  Wolf  had  an  insatiable  craving  to  find 
out  for  himself  whether  or  not  everything  on  earth 
was  good  to  eat.  Kipling  writes  of  puppies'  ex- 
periments in  trying  to  eat  soap  and  blacking.  Wolf 
added  to  this  limited  fare  a  hundred  articles,  from 
clothespins  to  cigars.  The  climax  came  when  he 
found  on  the  veranda-table  a  two-pound  box  of 
chocolates,  from  which  the  wrapping-paper  and  gilt 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  85 

cord  had  not  yet  been  removed.  Wolf  ate  not  only 
all  the  candy,  but  the  entire  box  and  the  paper  and 
the  string — after  which  he  was  tumultuously  and 
horribly  ill. 

The  foregoing  were  but  a  small  percentage  of 
his  gay  sins.  And  on  respectable,  middle-aged  Lad 
fell  the  burden  of  making  him  into  a  decent  canine 
citizen.  Lad  himself  had  been  one  of  those  rare 
puppies  to  whom  the  Law  is  taught  with  bewilder- 
ing ease.  A  single  command  or  prohibition  had 
ever  been  enough  to  fix  a  rule  in  his  almost  un- 
cannily human  brain.  Perhaps  if  the  two  little  brown 
pups  had  lived,  one  or  both  of  them  might  have 
taken  after  their  sire  in  character.  But  Wolf  was 
the  true  son  of  temperamental,  wilful  Lady,  and 
Lad  had  his  job  cut  out  for  him  in  educating  the 
puppy. 

It  was  a  slow,  tedious  process.  Lad  went  at  it, 
as  he  went  at  everything — with  a  gallant  dash,  be- 
hind which  was  an  endless  supply  of  resource  and 
endurance.  Once,  for  instance,  Wolf  leaped  bark- 
ingly  upon  a  filmy  square  of  handkerchief  that  had 
just  fallen  from  the  Mistress'  belt.  Before  the 
destructive  little  teeth  could  rip  the  fine  cambric 
into  rags,  the  puppy  found  himself,  to  his  amaze- 
ment, lifted  gently  from  earth  by  the  scruff  of  his 
neck  and  held  thus,  in  midair,  until  he  dropped 
the  handkerchief. 

Lad  then  deposited  him  on  the  grass — whereupon 
Wolf  pounced  once  more  upon  the  handkerchief. 


86  LAD:    A  DOG 

only  to  be  lifted  a  second  time,  painlessly  but  ter- 
rifyingly,  above  earth.  After  this  was  repeated 
five  times,  a  gleam  of  sense  entered  the  puppy's 
fluff-brain,  and  he  trotted  sulkily  away,  leaving  the 
handkerchief  untouched. 

Again,  when  he  made  a  wild  rush  at  the  friendly 
covey  of  peacock  chicks,  he  found  he  had  hurled 
himself  against  an  object  as  immobile  as  a  stone 
wall.  Lad  had  darted  in  between  the  pup  and  the 
chicks,  opposing  his  own  big  body  to  the  charge. 
Wolf  was  bowled  clean  over  by  the  force  of  the 
impact,  and  lay  for  a  minute  on  his  back,  the  breath 
knocked  clean  out  of  his  bruised  body. 

It  was  a  longer  but  easier  task  to  teach  him  at 
whom  to  bark  and  at  whom  not  to  bark.  By  a 
sharp  growl  or  a  menacing  curl  of  the  lips,  Lad 
silenced  the  youngster's  clamorous  salvo  when  a 
guest  or  tradesman  entered  The  Place,  whether  on 
foot  or  in  a  car.  By  his  own  thunderously  menac- 
ing bark  he  incited  Wolf  to  a  like  outburst  when 
some  peddler  or  tramp  sought  to  slouch  down  the 
drive  toward  the  house. 

The  full  tale  of  Wolf's  education  would  require 
many  profitless  pages  in  the  telling.  At  times  the 
Mistress  and  the  Master,  watching  from  the  side- 
lines, would  wonder  at  Lad's  persistency  and  would 
despair  of  his  success.  Yet  bit  by  bit — and  in  a 
surprisingly  short  time  for  so  vast  an  undertaking 
— Wolf's  character  was  rounded  into  form.  True, 
he  had  the  ever-goading  spirits  of  a  true  puppy. 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  87 

And  these  spirits  sometimes  led  him  to  smash  even 
such  sections  of  the  law  as  he  fully  understood. 
But  he  was  a  thoroughbred,  and  the  son  of  clever 
parents.  So  he  learned,  on  the  whole,  with  grati- 
fying speed — far  more  quickly  than  he  could  have 
been  taught  by  the  wisest  human. 

Nor  was  his  education  a  matter  of  constant 
drudgery.  Lad  varied  it  by  taking  the  puppy  for 
long  runs  in  the  December  woods  and  relaxed  to 
the  extent  of  romping  laboriously  with  him  at 
times. 

Wolf  grew  to  love  his  sire  as  he  had  never  loved 
Lady.  For  the  discipline  and  the  firm  kindliness 
of  Lad  were  having  their  effect  on  his  heart  as 
well  as  on  his  manners.  They  struck  a  far  deeper 
note  within  him  than  ever  had  Lady's  alternating 
affection  and  crossness. 

In  truth,  Wolf  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Lady. 
But  Lad  had  not.  Every  morning,  the  moment  he 
was  released  from  the  house,  Lad  would  trot  over 
to  Lady's  empty  kennel  to  see  if  by  any  chance  she 
had  come  back  to  him  during  the  night.  There  was 
eager  hope  in  his  big  dark  eyes  as  he  hurried  over 
to  the  vacant  kennel.  There  was  dejection  in  every 
line  of  his  body  as  he  turned  away  from  his  hope- 
less quest. 

Late  gray  autumn  had  emerged  overnight  into 
white  early  winter.  The  ground  of  The  Place  lay 
blanketed  in  snow.  The  lake  at  the  foot  of  the 
lawn  was  frozen  solid  from  shore  to  shore.  The 


88  LAD:    A  DOG 

trees  crouched  away  from  the  whirling  north  wind 
as  if  in  shame  at  their  own  black  nakedness. 
Nature,  like  the  birds,  had  flown  south,  leaving  the 
northern  world  as  dead  and  as  empty  and  as  cheer- 
less as  a  deserted  bird's-nest. 

The  puppy  reveled  in  the  snow.  He  would  roll 
in  it  and  bite  it,  barking  all  the  while  in  an  ecstasy 
of  excitement  His  gold-and-white  coat  was 
thicker  and  shaggier  now,  to  ward  off  the  stinging 
cold.  And  the  snow  and  the  roaring  winds  were 
his  playfellows  rather  than  his  foes. 

Most  of  all,  the  hard-frozen  lake  fascinated  him. 
Earlier,  when  Lad  had  taught  him  to  swim,  Wolf 
had  at  first  shrunk  back  from  the  chilly  black  water. 
Now,  to  his  astonishment,  he  could  run  on  that 
water  as  easily — if  somewhat  sprawlingly — as  on 
land.  It  was  a  miracle  he  never  tired  of  testing. 
He  spent  half  his  time  on  the  ice,  despite  an  occa- 
sional hard  tumble  or  involuntary  slide. 

Once  and  once  only — in  all  her  six-week  absence 
and  in  his  own  six- week  loneliness — had  Lad  dis- 
covered anything  to  remind  him  of  his  lost  mate; 
and  that  discovery  caused  him  for  the  first  time 
in  his  blameless  life  to  break  the  most  sacred  of 
The  Place's  simple  Laws — the  inviolable  Guest- 
Law. 

It  was  on  a  day  in  late  November.  A  runabout 
came  down  the  drive  to  the  front  door  of  the 
house.  In  it  rode  the  vet*  who  had  taken  Lady 
away.  He  had  stopped  for  a  moment  on  his  way 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  89 

to  Paterson,  to  report  as  to  Lady's  progress  at  his 
dog-hospital. 

Lad  was  in  the  living-room  at  the  time.  As  a 
maid  answered  the  summons  at  the  door,  he  walked 
hospitably  forward  to  greet  the  unknown  guest. 
The  vet*  stepped  into  the  room  by  one  door  as  the 
Master  entered  it  by  the  other — which  was  lucky 
for  the  vet*. 

Lad  took  one  look  at  the  man  who  had  stolen 
Lady.  Then,  without  a  sound  or  other  sign  of 
warning,  he  launched  his  mighty  bulk  straight  at 
the  vet's  throat. 

Accustomed  though  he  was  to  the  ways  of  dogs, 
the  vet*  had  barely  time  to  brace  himself  and  to 
throw  one  arm  in  front  of  his  throat.  And  then 
Lad's  eighty  pounds  smote  him  on  the  chest,  and 
Lad's  powerful  jaws  closed  viselike  on  the  fore- 
arm that  guarded  the  man's  throat.  Deep  into  the 
thick  ulster  the  white  teeth  clove  their  way — 
through  ulster-sleeve  and  undercoat  sleeve  and  the 
sleeves  of  a  linen  shirt  and  of  flannels — clear 
through  to  the  flesh  of  the  forearm. 

"Lad!"  shouted  the  Master,  springing  forward. 

In  obedience  to  the  sharp  command,  Lad  loosed 
tiis  grip  and  dropped  to  the  floor — where  he  stood 
quivering  with  leashed  fury. 

Through  the  rage-mists  that  swirled  over  his 
brain,  he  knew  he  had  broken  the  Law.  He  had 
never  merited  punishment.  He  did  not  fear  it. 
But  the  Master's  tone  of  fierce  disapproval  cut  the 


00  LAD:    A  DOG 

sensitive  dog  soul  more  painfully  than  any  scourge 
could  have  cut  his  body. 

"Lad!"  cried  the  Master  again,  in  rebuking 
amazement. 

The  dog  turned,  walked  slowly  over  to  the  Master 
and  lay  down  at  his  feet.  The  Master,  without 
another  word,  opened  the  front  door  and  pointed 
outward.  Lad  rose  and  slunk  out.  He  had  been 
ordered  from  the  house,  and  in  a  stranger's 
presence ! 

"He  thinks  I'm  responsible  for  his  losing  Lady/' 
said  the  vet',  looking  ruefully  at  his  torn  sleeve. 
'That's  why  he  went  for  me.  I  don't  blame  the 
dog.  Don't  lick  him." 

"I'm  not  going  to  lick  him,"  growled  the  Master. 
"I'd  as  soon  thrash  a  woman.  Besides,  I've  just 
punished  him  worse  than  if  I'd  taken  an  ax-handle 
to  him.  Send  me  a  bill  for  your  coat." 

In  late  December  came  a  thaw — a  freak  thaw 
that  changed  the  white  ground  to  brown  mud  and 
rotted  the  smooth  surface  of  the  lake-ice  to  gray 
slush.  All  day  and  all  night  the  trees  and  the  eaves 
sent  forth  a  dreary  drip-drip-drip.  It  was  the  tra- 
ditional January  Thaw — set  forward  a  month. 

On  the  third  and  last  morning  of  the  thaw  Wolf 
galloped  down  to  the  lake  as  usual.  Lad  jogged 
along  at  his  side.  As  they  reached  the  margin, 
Lad  sniffed  and  drew  back.  His  weird  sixth  sense 
somehow  told  him — as  it  tells  an  elephant — that 
there  was  danger  ahead. 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  91 

Wolf,  however,  was  at  the  stage  of  extreme 
youth  when  neither  dogs  nor  humans  are  bothered 
by  premonitions.  Ahead  of  him  stretched  the  huge 
sheet  of  ice  whereon  he  loved  to  gambol.  Straight- 
way he  frisked  out  upon  it. 

A  rough  growl  of  warning  from  Lad  made  him 
look  back,  but  the  lure  of  the  ice  was  stronger  than 
the  call  of  duty. 

The  current,  at  this  point  of  the  lake,  twisted 
sharply  landward  in  a  half-circle.  Thus,  for  a 
few  yards  out,  the  rotting  ice  was  still  thick,  but 
where  the  current  ran,  it  was  thin,  and  as  soggy 
as  wet  blotting-paper — as  Wolf  speedily  discovered. 

He  bounded  on  the  thinner  ice  driving  his  hind 
claws  into  the  slushy  surface  for  his  second  leap. 
He  was  dismayed  to  find  that  the  ice  collapsed 
under  the  pounding  feet.  There  was  a  dull,  sloppy 
sound.  A  ten- foot  ice-cake  broke  off  from  the 
main  sheet;  breaking  at  once  into  a  dozen  smaller 
cakes;  and  Wolf  disappeared,  tail  first,  into  the 
swift-running  water  beneath. 

To  the  surface  he  came,  at  the  outer  edge  of  the 
hole.  He  was  mad,  clear  through,  at  the  prank 
his  beloved  lake  had  played  on  him.  He  struck 
out  for  shore.  On  the  landward  side  of  the  open- 
ing his  forefeet  clawed  helplessly  at  the  unbroken 
ledge  of  ice.  He  had  not  the  strength  or  the  wit 
to  crawl  upon  it  and  make  his  way  to  land.  The 
bitter  chill  of  the  water  was  already  paralyzing 
him.  The  strong  current  was  tugging  at  his  hind- 


92  LAD:    A  DOG 

quarters.  Anger  gave  way  to  panic.  The  puppy 
wasted  much  of  his  remaining  strength  by  lifting 
up  his  voice  in  ear-splitting  howls. 

The  Mistress  and  the  Master,  motoring  into  the 
drive  from  the  highway  nearly  a  quarter-mile  dis- 
tant, heard  the  racket.  The  lake  was  plainly  visible 
to  them  through  the  bare  trees,  even  at  that  distance, 
and  they  took  in  the  impending  tragedy  at  a 
glance.  They  jumped  out  of  the  car  and  set  off 
at  a  run  to  the  water-edge.  The  way  was  long  and 
the  ground  was  heavy  with  mud.  They  could  not 
hope  to  reach  the  lake  before  the  puppy's  strength 
should  fail. 

But  Lad  was  already  there.  At  Wolf's  first  cry, 
Lad  sprang  out  on  the  ice  that  heaved  and  chucked 
and  cracked  under  his  greater  weight.  His  rush  car- 
ried him  to  the  very  edge  of  the  hole,  and  there, 
leaning  forward  and  bracing  all  four  of  his  ab- 
surdly tiny  white  paws,  he  sought  to  catch  the 
puppy  by  the  neck  and  lift  him  to  safety.  But 
before  his  rescuing  jaws  could  close  on  Wolf's  fur, 
the  decayed  ice  gave  way  beneath  his  weight,  and 
the  ten-foot  hole  was  widened  by  another  twenty 
feet  of  water. 

Down  went  Lad  with  a  crash,  and  up  he  came, 
in  almost  no  time,  a  few  feet  away  from  where 
Wolf  floundered  helplessly  among  the  chunks  of 
drifting  ice.  The  breaking  off  of  the  shoreward 
mass  of  ice,  under  Lad's  pressure,  had  left  the 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  93 

puppy  with  no  foothold  at  all.  It  had  ducked  him 
and  had  robbed  him  even  of  the  chance  to  howl. 

His  mouth  and  throat  full  of  water,  Wolf 
strangled  and  splashed  in  a  delirium  of  terror.  Lad 
struck  out  for  him,  butting  aside  the  impending  ice- 
chunks  with  his  great  shoulders,  and  swimming 
with  a  rush  that  lifted  a  third  of  his  tawny  body 
out  of  water.  His  jaws  gripped  Wolf  by  the 
middle  of  the  back,  and  he  swam  thus  with  him 
toward  shore.  At  the  edge  of  the  shoreward  ice 
he  gave  a  heave  which  called  on  every  numbing 
muscle  of  the  huge  frame,  and  which — in  spite  of 
the  burden  he  held — again  lifted  his  head  and 
shoulders  high  above  water. 

He  thus  flung  Wolf's  body  halfway  up  on  the 
ledge  of  ice.  The  puppy's  flying  forepaws  chanced 
to  strike  the  ice-surface.  His  sharp  claws  bit  into 
its  soft  upper  crust.  With  a  frantic  wriggle  he 
was  out  of  the  water  and  on  top  of  this  thicker 
stratum  of  shore-ice,  and  in  a  second  he  had  re- 
gained shore  and  was  careering  wildly  up  the  lawn 
toward  the  greater  safety  of  his  kennel. 

Yet,  halfway  in  his  flight,  courage  returned  to 
the  sopping-wet  baby.  He  halted,  turned  about 
and,  with  a  volley  of  falsetto  barks,  challenged  the 
offending  water  to  come  ashore  and  fight  fair. 

As  Wolf's  forepaws  had  gripped  the  ice,  he  had 
further  aided  his  climb  to  safety  by  thrusting 
downward  with  his  hind  legs.  Both  his  hind  paws 


94  LAD:    A  DOG 

had  struck  Lad's  head,  their  thrust  had  driven  Lad 
clean  under  water.  There  the  current  caught  him. 

When  Lad  came  up,  it  was  not  to  the  surface  but 
under  the  ice,  some  yards  below.  The  top  of  his 
head  struck  stunningly  against  the  underpart  of 
the  ice-sheet. 

A  lesser  dog  would  then  and  there  have  given 
up  the  struggle,  or  else  would  have  thrashed  about 
futilely  until  he  drowned.  Lad,  perhaps  on  in- 
stinct, perhaps  on  reason,  struck  out  toward  the 
light — the  spot  where  the  great  hole  had  let  in 
sunshine  through  the  gray  ice-sheet. 

The  average  dog  is  not  trained  to  swim  under 
water.  To  this  day,  it  is  a  mystery  how  Lad  had 
the  sense  to  hold  his  breath.  He  fought  his  way 
on,  inch  by  inch,  against  the  current,  beneath  the 
scratching  rough  under-surface  of  the  ice — always 
toward  the  light.  And  just  as  his  lungs  must  have 
been  ready  to  burst,  he  reached  the  open  space. 

Sputtering  and  panting,  Lad  made  for  shore. 
Presently  he  reached  the  ice-ledge  that  lay  between 
him  and  the  bank.  He  reached  it  just  as  the 
Master,  squirming  along,  face  downward  and  at 
full  length,  began  to  work  his  way  out  over  the 
swaying  shore-ice  toward  him. 

Twice  the  big  dog  raised  himself  almost  to  the 
top  of  the  ledge.  Once  the  ice  broke  under  his 
weight,  dousing  him.  The  second  time  he  got  his 
fore-quarters  well  over  the  top  of  the  ledge,  and 


HIS  LITTLE  SON  95 

he  was  struggling  upward  with  all  his  tired  body 
when  the  Master's  hand  gripped  his  soaked  ruff. 

With  this  new  help,  Lad  made  a  final  struggle — 
a  struggle  that  laid  him  gasping  but  safe  on  the 
slushy  surface  of  the  thicker  ice.  Backward  over 
the  few  yards  that  still  separated  them  from  land 
he  and  the  Master  crawled  to  the  bank. 

Lad  was  staggering  as  he  started  forward  to 
greet  the  Mistress,  and  his  eyes  were  still  dim  and 
bloodshot  from  his  fearful  ordeal.  Midway  in  his 
progress  toward  the  Mistress  another  dog  barred 
his  path — a  dog  that  fell  upon  him  in  an  ecstasy 
of  delighted  welcome. 

Lad  cleared  his  water-logged  nostrils  for  c. 
growl  of  protest.  He  had  surely  done  quite  enough 
for  Wolf  this  day,  without  the  puppy's  trying  to 
rob  him  now  of  the  Mistress'  caress.  He  was  tired, 
and  he  was  dizzy;  and  he  wanted  such  petting  and 
comfort  and  praise  as  only  the  worshipped  Mistress 
could  give. 

Impatience  at  the  puppy's  interference  cleared  the 
haze  a  little  from  Lad's  brain  and  eyes.  He  halted 
in  his  shaky  walk  and  stared,  dum founded.  This 
dog  which  greeted  him  so  rapturously  was  not 
Wolf.  It  was — why,  it  was — Lady!  Oh,  it  was 
Lady ! 

"We've  just  brought  her  back  to  you,  old  friend," 
the  Master  was  telling  him.  "We  went  over  for 
her  in  the  car  this  morning.  She's  all  well  again, 
and " 


96  LAD:    A  DOG 

But  Lad  did  not  hear.  All  he  realized — all  he 
wanted  to  realize — was  that  his  mate  was  ec- 
statically nipping  one  of  his  ears  to  make  him  romp 
with  her. 

It  was  a  sharp  nip;  and  it  hurt  like  the  very 
mischief. 

Lad  loved  to  have  it  hurt. 


CHAPTER  V 
FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON 

ED  had  never  been  in  a  city  or  in  a  crowd. 
To  him  the  universe  was  bounded  by  the  soft 
green  mountains  that  hemmed  in  the  valley 
and  the  lake.     The  Place  stood  on  the  lake's  edge, 
its  meadows  running  back  to  the  forest.     There 
were  few  houses  nearer  than  the  mile-distant  village. 
It  was  an  ideal  home  for  such  a  dog  as  Lad,  even 
as  Lad  was  an  ideal  dog  for  such  a  home. 

A  guest  started  all  the  trouble — a  guest  who 
spent  a  week-end  at  The  Place  and  who  loved 
dogs  far  better  than  he  understood  them.  He  made 
much  of  Lad,  being  loud-voiced  in  his  admiration 
of  the  stately  collie.  Lad  endured  the  caresses 
when  he  could  not  politely  elude  them. 

"Say!"  announced  the  guest  just  before  he  de- 
parted, "If  I  had  a  dog  like  Lad,  I'd  'show'  him — 
at  the  big  show  at  Madison  Square,  you  know.  It's 
booked  for  next  month.  Why  not  take  a  chance 
and  exhibit  him  there  ?  Think  what  it  would  mean 
to  you  people  to  have  a  Westminster  blue  ribbon  the 
big  dog  had  won!  Why,  you'd  be  as  proud  as 
Punch!" 

'  97 


98  LAD:    A  DOG 

It  was  a  careless  speech  and  well  meant.  No  harm 
might  have  come  from  it,  had  not  the  Master  the 
next  day  chanced  upon  an  advance  notice  of  the 
dog-show  in  his  morning  paper.  He  read  the  press- 
agent's  quarter-column  proclamation.  Then  he  re- 
membered what  the  guest  had  said.  The  Mistress 
was  called  into  consultation.  And  it  was  she,  as 
ever,  who  cast  the  deciding  vote. 

"Lad  is  twice  as  beautiful  as  any  collie  we  eve* 
saw  at  the  Show,"  she  declared,  "and  not  one  of 
them  is  half  as  wise  or  good  or  human  as  he  is. 
And — a  blue  ribbon  is  the  greatest  honor  a  dog  can 
have,  I  suppose.  It  would  be  something  to  re- 
member." 

After  which,  the  Master  wrote  a  letter  to  a 
friend  who  kept  a  show  kennel  of  Airedales.  He 
received  this  answer: 

"I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything,  professionally, 
about  collies — Airedales  being  my  specialty.  But  Lad 
is  a  beauty,  as  I  remember  him,  and  his  pedigree  shows 
a  bunch  of  old-time  champions.  I'd  risk  it,  if  I  were  you. 
If  you  are  in  doubt  and  don't  want  to  plunge,  why  not 
just  enter  him  for  the  Novice  class?  That  is  a  class  for 
dogs  that  have  never  before  been  shown.  It  will  cos*,  you 
five  dollars  to  enter  him  for  a  single  class,  like  that.  And 
in  the  Novice,  he  won't  be  up  against  any  champions  or 
other  dogs  that  have  already  won  prizes.  That  will  make 
it  easier.  It  isn't  a  grueling  competition  like  the  'Open' 
or  even  the  'Limit/  If  he  wins  as  a  Novice,  yoif  can 
enter  him,  another  time,  in  something  more  important. 
Vm  inclosing  an  application-blank  for  you  to  fiP  «*4t 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON          99 

and  send  with  your  entrance-fee,  to  the  secretary.  You'll 
find  his  address  at  the  bottom  of  the  blank.  I'm  show- 
ing four  of  my  Airedales  there — so  we'll  be  neighbors." 

Thus  encouraged,  the  Master  filled  in  the  blank 
and  sent  it  with  a  check.  And  in  due  time  word 
was  returned  to  him  that  "Sunnybank  Lad"  was 
formally  entered  for  the  Novice  class,  at  the  West- 
minister Kennel  Club's  annual  show  at  Madison 
Square  Garden. 

By  this  time  both  the  Mistress  and  the  Master 
were  infected  with  the  most  virulent  type  of  the 
Show  Germ.  They  talked  of  little  else  than  the 
forthcoming  Event.  They  read  all  the  dog-show 
literature  they  could  lay  hands  on. 

As  for  Lad,  he  was  mercifully  ignorant  of  what 
was  in  store  for  him. 

The  Mistress  had  an  inkling  of  his  fated  ordeal 
when  she  read  the  Kennel  Club  rule  that  no  dog 
could  be  taken  from  the  Garden,  except  at  stated 
times,  from  the  moment  the  show  should  begin, 
at  ten  A.M.  Wednesday  morning,  until  the  hour 
of  its  close,  at  ten  o'clock  Saturday  night.  For 
twelve  hours  a  day — for  four  consecutive  days — 
every  entrant  must  be  there.  By  paying  a  forfeit 
fee,  dog  owners  might  take  their  pets  to  some 
nearby  hotel  or  stable,  for  the  remainder  of  the 
night  and  early  morning — a  permission  which,  for 
obvious  reasons,  would  not  affect  most  dogs. 

"But  Lad's  never  been  away  from  home  a  night 
in  his  life!"  exclaimed  the  Mistress  in  dismay. 


100  LAD:    A  DOG 

"He'll  be  horribly  lonely  there,  all  that  while — espe- 
cially at  night." 

By  this  time,  with  the  mysterious  foreknowledge 
of  the  best  type  of  thoroughbred  collie,  Lad  began 
to  be  aware  that  something  unusual  had  crept  into 
the  atmosphere  of  The  Place.  It  made  him  restless, 
but  he  did  not  associate  it  with  himself — until  the 
Mistress  took  to  giving  him  daily  baths  and 
brushings. 

Always  she  had  brushed  him  once  a  day,  to  keep 
his  shaggy  coat  fluffy  and  burnished;  and  the  lake 
had  supplied  him  with  baths  that  made  him  as  clean 
as  any  human.  But  never  had  he  undergone  such 
searching  massage  with  comb  and  brush  as  was 
now  his  portion.  Never  had  he  known  such  soap- 
infested  scrubbings  as  were  now  his  daily  fate,  for 
the  week  preceding  the  show. 

As  a  result  of  these  ministrations  his  wavy  fur 
was  like  spun  silk  in  texture;  and  it  stood  out  all 
over  him  like  the  hair  of  a  Circassian  beauty  in  a 
dime  museum.  The  white  chest  and  f  orepaws  were 
like  snow.  And  his  sides  and  broad  back  and 
mighty  shoulders  shone  like  dark  bronze. 

He  was  magnificent — but  he  was  miserable.  He 
knew  well  enough,  now,  that  he  was  in  some  way 
the  center  of  all  this  unwonted  stir  and  excitement 
which  pervaded  The  Place.  He  loathed  change  of 
any  sort — a  thoroughbred  collie  being  ever  an  ultra- 
conservative.  This  particular  change  seemed  to 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        101 

threaten  his  peace;  also  it  kept  his  skin  scraped  with 
combs  and  his  hair  redolent  of  nasty-smelling  soaps. 

To  humans  there  was  no  odor  at  all  in  the  naphtha 
soap  with  which  the  Mistress  lathered  the  dog,  and 
every  visible  atom  of  it  was  washed  away  at  once 
with  warm  water.  But  a  human's  sense  of  smell, 
compared  with  the  best  type  of  collie's,  is  as  a 
purblind  puppy's  power  of  sight  in  comparison  to  a 
hawk's. 

All  over  the  East,  during  these  last  days  before 
the  Show,  hundreds  of  high-bred  dogs  were  under- 
going preparation  for  an  exhibition  which  to  the 
beholder  is  a  delight — and  which  to  many  of  the 
canine  exhibits  is  a  form  of  unremitting  torture. 
To  do  justice  to  the  Master  and  the  Mistress,  they 
had  no  idea — then — of  this  torture.  Otherwise  all 
the  blue  ribbons  ever  woven  would  not  have 
tempted  them  to  subject  their  beloved  chum  to  it. 

In  some  kennels  Airedales  were  "plucked,"  by 
hand,  to  rid  them  of  the  last  vestige  of  the  soft  gray 
outer  coat  which  is  an  Airedale's  chief  natural  beauty 
— and  no  hair  of  which  must  be  seen  in  a  show. 
"Plucking"  a  dog  is  like  pulling  live  hairs  from  a 
human  head,  so  far  as  the  sensation  goes.  But 
show-traditions  demand  the  anguish. 

In  other  kennels,  bull-terriers'  white  coats  were 
still  further  whitened  by  the  harsh  rubbing  of  pipe- 
clay into  the  tender  skin.  Sensitive  tails  and  still 
more  sensitive  ears  were  sandpapered,  for  the  vie- 


102  LAD:    A  DOG 

tims*  greater  beauty — and  agony.  Ear-Interiors, 
also,  were  shaved  close  with  safety-razors. 

Murderous  little  "knife-combs"  were  tearing 
blithely  away  at  collies'  ear-interiors  and  heads,  to 
"barber"  natural  furriness  into  painful  and  un- 
natural trimness.  Ears  were  "scrunched"  until 
their  wearers  quivered  with  stark  anguish — to  im- 
part the  perfect  tulip-shape;  ordained  by  fashion 
for  collies. 

And  so  on,  through  every  breed  to  be  exhibited — 
each  to  its  own  form  of  torment;  torments  com- 
pared to  which  Lad's  gentle  if  bothersome  brushing 
and  bathing  were  a  pure  delight! 

Few  of  these  ruthlessly  "prepared"  dogs  were 
personal  pets.  The  bulk  of  them  were  "kennel 
dogs" — dogs  bred  and  raised  after  the  formula 
for  raising  and  breeding  prize  hogs  or  chickens,  and 
with  little  more  of  the  individual  element  in  it.  The 
dogs  were  bred  in  a  way  to  bring  out  certain  arbi- 
trary "points"  which  count  in  show- judging,  and 
which  change  from  year  to  year. 

Brain,  fidelity,  devotion,  the  human  side  of  a  dog 
— these  were  totally  ignored  in  the  effort  to  breed 
the  perfect  physical  animal.  The  dogs  were  kept  in 
kennel-buildings  and  in  wire  "runs"  like  so  many 
pedigreed  cattle — looked  after  by  paid  attendants, 
and  trained  to  do  nothing  but  to  be  the  best-looking 
of  their  kind,  and  to  win  ribbons.  Some  of  them 
did  not  know  their  owners  by  sight — having  been 
reared  wholly  by  hirelings. 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        103 

The  body  was  everything;  the  heart,  the  mind, 
the  namelessly  delightful  quality  of  the  master- 
raised  dog — these  were  nothing.  Such  traits  do  not 
win  prizes  at  a  bench-show.  Therefore  fanciers, 
whose  sole  aim  is  to  win  ribbons  and  cups,  do  not 
bother  to  cultivate  them.  (All  of  this  is  extraneous ; 
but  may  be  worth  your  remembering,  next  time 
you  go  to  a  dog-show.) 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  Show's  first  day, 
the  Mistress  and  the  Master  set  forth  for  town 
with  Lad.  They  went  in  their  little  car,  that  the 
dog  might  not  risk  the  dirt  and  cinders  of  a  train. 

Lad  refused  to  eat  a  mouthful  of  the  tempting 
breakfast  set  before  him  that  day.  He  could  not 
eat,  when  foreboding  was  hot  in  his  throat.  He  had 
often  ridden  in  the  car.  Usually  he  enjoyed  the 
ride;  but  now  he  crawled  rather  than  sprang  into 
the  tonneau.  All  the  way  up  the  drive,  his  great 
mournful  eyes  were  turned  back  toward  the  house 
in  dumb  appeal.  Every  atom  of  spirit  and  gayety 
and  dash  were  gone  from  him.  He  knew  he  was 
being  taken  away  from  the  sweet  Place  he  loved, 
and  that  the  car  was  whizzing  him  along  toward 
some  dreaded  fate.  His  heart  was  sick  within  him. 

To  the  born  and  bred  show-dog  this  is  an  every- 
day occurrence — painful,  but  inevitable.  To  a 
chum-dog  like  Lad,  it  is  heartbreaking.  The  big 
collie  buried  his  head  in  the  Mistress*  lap  and 
crouched  hopelessly  at  her  feet  as  the  car  chugged 
cityward. 


104  LAD:    A  DOG 

A  thoroughly  unhappy  dog  is  the  most  thor- 
oughly unhappy  thing  on  earth.  All  the  adored 
Mistress'  coaxings  and  pettings  could  not  rouse  Lad 
from  his  dull  apathy  of  despair.  This  was  the  hour 
when  he  was  wont  to  make  his  stately  morning 
rounds  of  The  Place,  at  the  heels  of  one  of  his  two 
deities.  And  now,  instead,  these  deities  were  carry- 
ing him  away  to  something  dire  fully  unpleasant.  A 
lesser  dog  would  have  howled  or  would  have 
struggled  crazily  to  break  away.  Lad  stood  his 
ground  like  a  furry  martyr,  and  awaited  his  fate. 

In  an  hour  or  so  the  ride  ended.  The  car  drew 
up  at  Madison  Square — beside  the  huge  yellowish 
building,  arcaded  and  Diana-capped,  which  goes  by 
the  name  of  "Garden"  and  which  is  as  nearly  his- 
toric as  any  landmark  in  feverish  New  York  is 
permitted  to  be. 

Ever  since  the  car  had  entered  Manhattan 
Island,  unhappy  Lad's  nostrils  had  been  aquiver  with 
a  million  new  and  troublous  odors.  Now,  as  the 
car  halted,  these  myriad  strange  smells  were  lost 
in  one — an  all-pervasive  scent  of  dog.  To  a  human, 
out  there  in  the  street,  the  scent  was  not  observable. 
To  a  dog  it  was  overwhelming. 

Lad,  at  the  Master's  word,  stepped  down  from 
the  tonneau  onto  the  sidewalk.  He  stood  there, 
dazedly  sniffing.  The  plangent  roar  of  the  city 
was  painful  to  his  ears,  which  had  always  been 
attuned  to  the  deep  silences  of  forest  and  lake. 
And  through  this  dm  he  caught  the  muffled  noise 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        105 

of  the  chorused  barks  and  howls  of  many  of  his 
own  kind. 

The  racket  that  bursts  so  deafeningly  on  humans 
as  they  enter  the  Garden,  during  a  dog-show,  was 
wholly  audible  to  Lad  out  in  the  street  itself.  And, 
as  instinct  or  scent  makes  a  hog  flinch  at  going 
into  a  slaughterhouse,  so  the  gallant  dog's  spirit 
quailed  for  a  moment  as  he  followed  the  Mistress 
and  the  Master  into  the  building. 

A  man  who  is  at  all  familiar  with  the  ways  of 
dogs  can  tell  at  once  whether  a  dog's  bark  denotes 
cheer  or  anger  or  terror  or  grief  or  curiosity.  To 
such  a  man  a  bark  is  as  expressive  of  meanings 
as  are  the  inflections  of  a  human  voice.  To  an- 
other dog  these  meanings  are  far  more  intelligible. 
And  in  the  timbre  of  the  multiple  barks  and  yells 
that  now  assailed  his  ears,  Lad  read  nothing  to 
allay  his  own  fears. 

He  was  the  hero  of  a  half-dozen  hard-won 
fights.  He  had  once  risked  his  life  to  save  life. 
He  had  attacked  tramps  and  peddlers  and  other 
stick-wielding  invaders  who  had  strayed  into  the 
grounds  of  The  Place.  Yet  the  tiniest  semblance 
of  fear  now  crept  into  his  heart. 

He  looked  up  at  the  Mistress,  a  world  of  sor- 
rowing appeal  in  his  eyes.  At  her  gentle  touch  on 
his  head  and  at  a  whisper  of  her  loved  voice,  he 
moved  onward  at  her  side  with  no  further  hesita- 
tion. If  these,  his  gods,  were  leading  him  to 


106  LAD:    A  DOG 

death,  he  would  not  question  their  right  to  do  it, 
but  would  follow  on  as  befitted  a  good  soldier. 

Through  a  doorway  they  went.  At  a  wicket  a 
yawning  veterinary  glanced  uninterestedly  at  Lad. 
As  the  dog  had  no  outward  and  glaring  signs  of 
disease,  the  vet'  did  not  so  much  as  touch  him,  but 
with  a  nod  suffered  him  to  pass.  The  vef  was 
paid  to  inspect  all  dogs  as  they  entered  the  show. 
Perhaps  some  of  them  were  turned  back  by  him, 
perhaps  not;  but  after  this,  as  after  many  another 
show,  scores  of  kennels  were  swept  by  distemper 
and  by  other  canine  maladies,  scores  of  deaths  fol- 
lowed. That  is  one  of  the  risks  a  dog-exhibitor 
must  take — or  rather  that  his  luckless  dogs  must 
take — in  spite  of  the  fees  paid  to  yawning  veterin- 
aries  to  bar  out  sick  entrants. 

As  Lad  passed  in  through  the  doorway,  he  halted 
involuntarily  in  dismay.  Dogs — dogs — DOGS  ! 
More  than  two  thousand  of  them,  from  Great  Dane 
to  toy  terrier,  benched  in  row  after  row  throughout 
the  vast  floor-space  of  the  Garden!  Lad  had  never 
known  there  were  so  many  dogs  on  earth. 

Fully  five  hundred  of  them  were  barking  or 
howling.  The  hideous  volume  of  sound  swelled 
to  the  Garden's  vaulted  roof  and  echoed  back  again 
like  innumerable  hammer-blows  upon  the  eardrum. 

The  Mistress  stood  holding  Lad's  chain  and 
softly  caressing  the  bewildered  dog,  while  the 
Master  went  to  make  inquiries.  Lad  pressed  his 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        107 

shaggy  body  closer  to  her  knee  for  refuge,  as  he 
gazed  blinkingly  around  him. 

In  the  Garden's  center  were  several  large  in- 
closures  of  wire  and  reddish  wood.  Inside  each 
inclosure  were  a  table,  a  chair  and  a  movable  plat- 
form. The  platform  was  some  six  inches  high  and 
four  feet  square.  At  corners  of  these  "judging- 
rings"  were  blackboards  on  which  the  classes  next 
to  be  inspected  were  chalked  up. 

All  around  the  central  space  were  alleys,  on  each 
side  of  which  were  lines  of  raised  "benches,"  two 
feet  from  the  ground.  The  benches  were  carpeted 
with  straw  and  were  divided  off  by  high  wire  par- 
titions into  compartments  about  three  feet  in  area. 
Each  compartment  was  to  be  the  abiding-place  of 
some  unfortunate  dog  for  the  next  four  days  and 
nights.  By  short  chains  the  dogs  were  bound  into 
these  open-fronted  cells. 

The  chains  left  their  wearers  just  leeway  enough 
to  stand  up  or  lie  down  or  to  move  to  the  various 
limits  of  the  tiny  space.  In  front  of  some  of  the 
compartments  a  wire  barrier  was  fastened.  This 
meant  that  the  occupant  was  savage — in  other 
words,  that  under  the  four-day  strain  he  was  likely 
to  resent  the  stares  or  pokes  or  ticklings  or  promis- 
cuous alien  pattings  of  fifty  thousand  curious 
visitors. 

The  Master  came  back  with  a  plumply  tipped 
attendant.  Lad  was  conducted  through  a  babel 
of  yapping  and  snapping  thoroughbreds  of  all 


108  LAD:    A  DOG 

breeds,  to  a  section  at  the  Garden's  northeast 
corner,  above  which,  in  large  black  letters  on  a 
white  sign,  was  inscribed  "COLLIES"  Here  his 
conductors  stopped  before  a  compartment  numbered 
"658." 

"Up,  Laddie!"  said  the  Mistress,  touching  the 
straw-carpeted  bench. 

Usually,  at  this  command,  Lad  was  wont  to 
spring  to  the  indicated  height — whether  car-floor 
or  table-top — with  the  lightness  of  a  cat.  Now,  one 
foot  after  another,  he  very  slowly  climbed  into  the 
compartment  he  was  already  beginning  to  detest 
— the  cell  which  was  planned  to  be  his  only  resting- 
spot  for  four  interminable  days.  There  he,  who 
had  never  been  tied,  was  ignominiously  chained 
as  though  he  were  a  runaway  puppy.  The  insult 
bit  to  the  depths  of  his  sore  soul.  He  curled  down 
in  the  straw. 

The  Mistress  made  him  as  comfortable  as  she 
could.  She  set  before  him  the  breakfast  she  had 
brought  and  told  the  attendant  to  bring  him  some 
water. 

The  Master,  meantime,  had  met  a  collie  man 
whom  he  knew,  and  in  company  with  this  ac- 
quaintance he  was  walking  along  the  collie-section 
examining  the  dogs  tied  there.  A  dozen  times  had 
the  Master  visited  dog-shows;  but  now  that  Lad 
was  on  exhibition,  he  studied  the  other  collies  with 
new  eyes. 

"Look!"  he  said  boastfully  to  his  companion, 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        109 

pausing  before  a  bench  whereon  were  chained  a 
half-dozen  dogs  from  a  single  illustrious  kennel. 
"These  fellows  aren't  in  it  with  old  Lad.  See — 
their  noses  are  tapered  like  tooth-picks,  and  the 
span  of  their  heads,  between  the  ears,  isn't  as  wide 
as  my  palm ;  and  their  eyes  are  little  and  they  slant 
like  a  Chinaman's;  and  their  bodies  are  as  curved 
as  a  grayhound's.  Compared  with  Lad,  some  of 
them  are  freaks.  That's  all  they  are,  just  freaks — 
not  all  of  them,  of  course,  but  a  lot  of  them." 

"That's  the  idea  nowadays,"  laughed  the  collie 
man  patronizingly.  "The  up-to-date  collie — this 
year's  style,  at  least — is  bred  with  a  borzoi  (wolf- 
hound) head  and  with  graceful,  small  bones. 
What's  the  use  of  his  having  brain  and  scenting- 
power?  He's  used  for  exhibition  or  kept  as  a  pet 
nowadays — not  to  herd  sheep.  Long  nose,  narrow 
head " 

"But  Lad  once  tracked  my  footsteps  two  miles 
through  a  snowstorm/'  bragged  the  Master;  "and 
again  un  a  road  where  fifty  people  had  walked 
since  I  had;  and  he  understands  the  meaning  of 
every  simple  word.  He " 

"Yes?"  said  the  collie  man,  quite  unimpressed. 
"Very  interesting — but  not  useful  in  a  show.  Some 
of  the  big  exhibitors  still  care  for  sense  in  their 
dogs,  and  they  make  companions  of  them — Eileen 
Moretta,  for  instance,  and  Fred  Leighton  and  one 
or  two  more;  but  I  find  most  of  the  rest  are  just 


110  LAD:    A  DOG 

out  for  the  prizes.  Let's  have  a  look  at  your  dog. 
Where  is  he?" 

On  the  way  down  the  alley  toward  Cell  658 
they  met  the  worried  Mistress. 

"Lad  won't  eat  a  thing,"  she  reported,  "and  he 
wouldn't  eat  before  we  left  home  this  morning, 
either.  He  drinks  plenty  of  water,  but  he  won't 
eat.  I'm  afraid  he's  sick." 

"They  hardly  ever  eat  at  a  show,"  the  collie  man 
consoled  her,  "hardly  a  mouthful — most  of  the 
high-strung  ones,  but  they  drink  quarts  of  water. 
This  is  your  dog,  hey?"  he  broke  off,  pausing  at 
658.  "H'm !" 

He  stood,  legs  apart,  hands  behind  his  back,  gaz- 
ing down  at  Lad.  The  dog  was  lying,  head  be- 
tween paws,  as  before.  He  did  not  so  much  as 
glance  up  at  the  stranger,  but  his  great  wistful 
eyes  roved  from  the  Mistress  to  the  Master  and 
back  again.  In  all  this  horrible  place  they  two 
alone  were  his  salvation. 

"H'm!"  repeated  the  collie  man  thoughtfully. 
"Eyes  too  big  and  not  enough  slanted.  Head  too 
thick  for  length  of  nose.  Ears  too  far  apart.  Eyes 
too  far  apart,  too.  Not  enough  'terrier  expression' 
in  them.  Too  much  bone,  too  much  bulk.  Won- 
derful coat,  though — glorious  coat!  Best  coat  I've 
seen  this  five  years.  Great  brush,  too!  What's  he 
entered  for?  Novice,  hey?  May  get  a  third  with 
him  at  that.  He's  the  true  type — but  old-fashioned. 
I'm  afraid  he's  too  old-fashioned  for  such  fast 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        111 

company  as  he's  in.  Still,  you  never  can  tell.  Only 
it's  a  pity  he  isn't  a  little  more " 

"I  wouldn't  have  him  one  bit  different  in  any 
way!"  flashed  the  Mistress.  "He's  perfect  as  he 
is.  You  can't  see  that,  though,  because  he  isn't 
himself  now.  I've  never  seen  him  so  crushed  and 
woe-begone.  I  wish  we  had  never  brought  him 
here." 

"You  can't  blame  him,"  said  the  collie  man 
philosophically.  "Why,  just  suppose  you  were 
brought  to  a  strange  place  like  this  and  chained 
into  a  cage  and  were  left  there  four  days  and 
nights  while  hundreds  of  other  prisoners  kept 
screaming  and  shouting  and  crying  at  the  top  of 
their  lungs  every  minute  of  the  time !  And  suppose 
about  a  hundred  thousand  people  kept  jostling  past 
your  cage  night  and  day,  rubbering  at  you  and 
pointing  at  you  and  trying  to  feel  your  ears  and 
mouth,  and  chirping  at  you  to  shake  hands,  would 
you  feel  very  hungry  or  very  chipper?  A  four- 
day  show  is  the  most  fearful  thing  a  high-strung 
dog  can  go  through — next  to  vivisection.  A  little 
one-day  show,  for  about  eight  hours,  is  no  special 
ordeal,  especially  if  the  dog's  Master  stays  near 
him  all  the  time ;  but  a  four-day  show  is — is  Sheol ! 
I  wonder  the  S.  P.  C.  A.  doesn't  do  something  to 
make  it  easier." 

"If  I'd  known — if  we'd  known "  began  the 

Mistress. 

"Most  of  these  folks  know!"  returned  the  collie 


112  LAD:    A  DOG 

man.  "They  do  it  year  after  year.  There's  a 
mighty  strong  lure  in  a  bit  of  ribbon.  Why,  look 
what  an  exhibitor  will  do  for  it!  He'll  risk  his 
dog's  health  and  make  his  dog's  life  a  horror. 
He'll  ship  him  a  thousand  miles  in  a  tight  crate 
from  Show  to  Show.  (Some  dogs  die  under  the 
strain  of  so  many  journeys.)  And  he'll  pay  five 
dollars  for  every  class  the  dog's  entered  in.  Some 
exhibitors  enter  a  single  dog  in  five  or  six  classes. 
The  Association  charges  one  dollar  admission  to 
the  show.  Crowds  of  people  pay  the  price  to  come 
in.  The  exhibitor  gets  none  of  the  gate-money. 
All  he  gets  for  his  five  dollars  or  his  twenty-five 
dollars  is  an  off  chance  at  a  measly  scrap  of  colored 
silk  worth  maybe  four  cents.  That,  and  the  same 
off-chance  at  a  tiny  cash  prize  that  doesn't  come 
anywhere  near  to  paying  his  expenses.  Yet,  for  all, 
it's  the  straightest  sport  on  earth.  Not  an  atom 
of  graft  in  it,  and  seldom  any  profit.  ...  So  long! 
I  wish  you  folks  luck  with  658." 

He  strolled  on.  The  Mistress  was  winking  very 
fast  and  was  bending  over  Lad,  petting  him  and 
whispering  to  him.  The  Master  looked  in  curiosity 
at  a  kennel  man  who  was  holding  down  a  nearby 
collie  while  a  second  man  was  trimming  the  scared 
dog's  feet  and  fetlocks  with  a  pair  of  curved  shears; 
and  now  the  Master  noted  that  nearly  every  dog 
but  Lad  was  thus  clipped  as  to  ankle. 

At  an  adjoining  cell  a  woman  was  sifting  almost 
a  pound  of  talcum  powder  into  her  dog's  fur  to 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        113 

make  the  coat  fluffier.  Elsewhere  similar  weird 
preparations  were  in  progress.  And  Lad's  only 
preparation  had  been  baths  and  brushing!  The 
Master  began  to  feel  like  a  fool. 

People  all  along  the  collie  line  presently  began. 
to  brush  dogs  (smoothing  the  fur  the  wrong  way 
to  fluff  it)  and  to  put  other  finishing  touches  on 
the  poor  beasts'  make-up.  The  collie  man  strolled 
back  to  658. 

"The  Novice  class  in  collies  is  going  to  be  called 
presently,"  he  told  the  Mistress.  "Where's  your 
exhibition-leash  and  choke-collar?  I'll  help  you 
put  them  on." 

"Why,  we've  only  this  chain,"  said  the  Mistress. 
"We  bought  it  for  Lad  yesterday,  and  this  is  his 
regular  collar — though  he  never  has  had  to  wear 
it.  Do  we  have  to  have  another  kind?" 

"You  don't  have  to  unless  you  want  to,"  said 
the  collie  man,  "but  it's  best — especially,  the  choke- 
collar.  You  see,  when  exhibitors  go  into  the  ring, 
they  hold  their  dogs  by  the  leash  close  to  the  neck. 
And  if  their  dogs  have  choke-collars,  why,  then 
they've  got  to  hold  their  heads  high  when  the  leash 
is  pulled.  They've  got  to,  to  keep  from  strangling. 
It  gives  them  a  fine,  proud  carriage  of  the  head, 
that  counts  a  lot  with  some  judges.  All  dog-photos 
are  taken  that  way.  Then  the  leash  is  blotted  out 
of  the  negative.  Makes  the  dog  look  showy,  too 
— keeps  him  from  slumping.  Can't  slump  much 
you're  trying  not  to  choke,  you  know." 


114  LAD:    A  DOG 

"It's  horrible!  Horrible!"  shuddered  the  Mis- 
tress. "I  wouldn't  put  such  a  thing  on  Lad  for 
all  the  prizes  on  earth.  When  I  read  Davis'  won- 
derful 'Bar  Sinister'  story,  I  thought  dog-shows 
were  a  real  treat  to  dogs.  I  see,  now,  they're " 

"Your  class  is  called !"  interrupted  the  collie  man. 
"Keep  his  head  high,  keep  him  moving  as  showily 
as  you  can.  Lead  him  close  to  you  with  the  chain 
as  short  as  possible.  Don't  be  scared  if  any  of 
the  other  dogs  in  the  ring  happen  to  fly  at  him. 
The  attendants  will  look  out  for  all  that.  Good 
luck." 

Down  the  aisle  and  to  the  wired  gate  of  the 
north-eastern  ring  the  unhappy  Mistress  piloted  the 
unhappier  Lad.  The  big  dog  gravely  kept  beside 
her,  regardless  of  other  collies  moving  in  the  same 
direction.  The  Garden  had  begun  to  fill  with 
visitors,  and  the  ring  was  surrounded  with  inter- 
ested "rail-birds."  The  collie  classes,  as  usual,  were 
among  those  to  be  judged  on  the  first  day  of  the 
four. 

Through  the  gate  into  the  ring  the  Mistress 
piloted  Lad.  Six  other  Novice  dogs  were  already 
there.  Beautiful  creatures  they  were,  and  all  but 
one  were  led  by  kennel  men.  At  the  table,  be- 
hind a  ledger  flanked  by  piles  of  multicolored 
ribbons,  sat  the  clerk.  Beside  the  platform  stood 
a  wizened  and  elderly  little  man  in  tweeds.  He 
was  McGilead,  who  had  been  chosen  as  judge  for 
the  collie  division.  He  was  a  Scot,  and  he  was  also 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        115 

a  man  with  stubborn  opinions  of  his  own  as  to 
dogs. 

Around  the  ring,  at  the  judge's  order,  the  Novice 
collies  were  paraded.  Most  of  them  stepped  high 
and  fast  and  carried  their  heads  proudly  aloft — 
the  thin  choke-collars  cutting  deep  into  their  furry 
necks.  One  entered  was  a  harum-scarum  puppy 
who  writhed  and  bit  and  whirled  about  in  ecstasy 
of  terror. 

Lad  moved  solemnly  along  at  the  Mistress'  side. 
He  did  not  pant  or  curvet  or  look  showy.  He  was 
miserable  and  every  line  of  his  splendid  body 
showed  his  misery.  The  Mistress,  too,  glancing  at 
the  more  spectacular  dogs,  wanted  to  cry — not  be- 
cause she  was  about  to  lose,  but  because  Lad  was 
about  to  lose.  Her  heart  ached  for  him.  Again 
she  blamed  herself  bitterly  for  bringing  him  here. 

McGilead,  hands  in  pockets,  stood  sucking  at  an 
empty  brier  pipe,  and  scanning  the  parade  that 
circled  around  him.  Presently  he  stepped  up  to 
the  Mistress,  checked  her  as  she  filed  past  him,  and 
said  to  her  with  a  sort  of  sorrowful  kindness: 

"Please  take  your  dog  over  to  the  far  end  of 
the  ring.  Take  him  into  the  corner  where  he  won't 
be  in  my  way  while  I  am  judging." 

Yes,  he  spoke  courteously  enough,  but  the  Mis- 
tress would  rather  have  had  him  hit  her  across  the 
face.  Meekly  she  obeyed  his  command.  Across 
the  ring,  to  the  very  farthest  corner,  she  went — 
poor  beautiful  Lad  beside  her,  disgraced,  weeded 


116  LAD:    A  DOG 

out  of  the  competition  at  the  very  start.  There, 
far  out  of  the  contest,  she  stood,  a  drooping  little 
figure,  f  edliig  as  though  everyone  were  sneering  at 
her  dear  dog's  disgrace. 

Lad  seemed  to  sense  her  sorrow.  For,  as  he 
stood  beside  her,  head  and  tail  low,  he  whined 
softly  and  licked  her  hand  as  if  in  encouragement. 
She  ran  her  fingers  along  his  silky  head.  Then, 
to  keep  from  crying,  she  watched  the  other  con- 
testants. 

No  longer  were  these  parading.  One  at  a  time 
and  then  in  twos,  the  judge  was  standing  them  on 
the  platform.  He  looked  at  their  teeth.  He 
pressed  their  heads  between  his  hands.  He 
"hefted"  their  hips.  He  ran  his  fingers  through 
their  coats.  He  pressed  his  palm  upward  against 
their  underbodies.  He  subjected  them  to  a  score 
of  such  annoyances,  but  he  did  it  all  with  a  quick 
and  sure  touch  that  not  even  the  crankiest  of  them 
could  resent. 

Then  he  stepped  back  and  studied  the  quartet. 
After  that  he  seemed  to  remember  Lad's  presence, 
and,  as  though  by  way  of  earning  his  fee,  he 
slouched  across  the  ring  to  where  the  forlorn  Mis- 
tress was  petting  her  dear  disgraced  dog. 

Lazily,  perfunctorily,  the  judge  ran  his  hand  over 
Lad,  with  absolutely  none  of  the  thoroughness  that 
had  marked  his  inspection  of  the  other  dogs.  Ap- 
parently there  was  no  need  to  look  for  the  finer 
points  in  a  disqualified  collie.  The  sketchy  examina- 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        117 

tion  did  not  last  three  seconds.  At  its  end  the 
judge  jotted  down  a  number  on  a  pad  he  held. 
Then  he  laid  one  hand  heavily  on  Lad's  head  and 
curtly  thrust  out  his  other  hand  at  the  Mistress. 

"Can  I  take  him  away  now?"  she  asked,  still 
stroking  Lad's  fur. 

"Yes,"  rasped  the  judge,  "and  take  this  along 
with  him." 

In  his  outstretched  hand  fluttered  a  little  bunch 
of  silk — dark  blue,  with  gold  lettering  on  it. 

The  blue  ribbon !  First  prize  in  the  Novice  class ! 
And  this  grouchy  little  judge  was  awarding  it — to 
Lad! 

The  Mistress  looked  very  hard  at  the  bit  of  blue 
and  gold  in  her  fingers.  She  saw  it  through  a 
queer  mist.  Then,  as  she  stooped  to  fasten  it  to 
Lad's  collar,  she  furtively  kissed  the  tiny  white  spot 
on  the  top  of  his  head. 

"It's  something  like  the  'Bar  Sinister'  victory 
after  all!"  she  exclaimed  joyously  as  she  rejoined 
the  delighted  Master  at  the  ring  gate.  "But,  oh, 
it  was  terrible  for  a  minute  or  two,  wasn't  it?" 

Now,  Angus  McGilead,  Esq.  (late  of  Linlithgow, 
Scotland),  had  a  knowledge  of  collies  such  as  is 
granted  to  few  men,  and  this  very  fact  made  him 
a  wretchedly  bad  dog-show  judge;  as  the  Kennel 
Club,  which — on  the  strength  of  his  fame — had 
engaged  his  services  for  this  single  occasion, 
speedily  learned.  The  greatest  lawyer  makes  often 
the  worst  judge.  Legal  annals  prove  this;  and  the 


118  LAD:    A  DOG 

same  thing  applies  to  dog-experts.    They  are  sane 
rather  than  judicial. 

McGilead  had  scant  patience  with  the  ultra- 
modern, inbred  and  grayhoundlike  collies  which 
had  so  utterly  departed  from  their  ancestral 
standards.  At  one  glimpse  he  had  recognized  Lad 
as  a  dog  after  his  own  heart — a  dog  that  brought 
back  to  him  the  murk  and  magic  of  the  Highland 
moors. 

He  had  noted  the  deep  chest,  the  mighty  fore- 
quarters,  the  tiny  white  paws,  the  incredible  wealth 
of  outer-  and  under-coat,  the  brush,  the  grand 
head,  and  the  soul  in  the  eyes.  This  was  such  a 
dog  as  McGilead's  shepherd  ancestors  had  admitted 
as  an  honored  equal,  at  hearth  and  board — such  a 
dog,  for  brain  and  brawn  and  beauty,  as  a  High- 
land master  would  no  sooner  sell  than  he  would 
sell  his  own  child. 

McGilead,  therefore,  had  waved  Lad  aside  while 
he  judged  the  lesser  dogs  of  his  class,  lest  he  be 
tempted  to  look  too  much  at  Lad  and  too  little  at 
them;  and  he  rejoiced,  at  the  last,  to  give  honor 
where  all  honor  was  due. 

Through  dreary  hours  that  day  Lad  lay  discon- 
solate in  his  cell,  nose  between  paws,  while  the 
stream  of  visitors  flowed  sluggishly  past  him.  His 
memory  of  the  Guest-Law  prevented  him  from 
showing  his  teeth  when  some  of  these  passing 
humans  paused  in  front  of  the  compartment  to 
pat  him  or  to  consult  his  number  in  their  catalogues. 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        119 

But  he  accorded  not  so  much  as  one  look^  to  say 
nothing  of  a  handshake — to  any  of  them. 

A  single  drop  of  happiness  was  in  his  sorrow- 
cup.  He  had,  seemingly,  done  something  that  made 
both  the  Master  and  the  Mistress  very,  very  proud 
of  him.  He  did  not  know  just  why  they  should 
be  for  he  had  done  nothing  clever.  In  fact,  he  had 
been  at  his  dullest.  But  they  were  proud  of  him — 
undeniably  proud,  and  this  made  him  glad,  through 
all  his  black  despondency. 

Even  the  collie  man  seemed  to  regard  him  with 
more  approval  than  before — not  that  Lad  cared  at 
all;  and  two  or  three  exhibitors  came  over  for  a 
special  look  at  him.  From  one  of  these  exhibitors 
the  Mistress  learned  of  a  dog-show  rule  that  was 
wholly  new  to  her. 

She  was  told  that  the  winning  dog  of  each  and 
every  class  was  obliged  to  return  later  to  the  ring 
to  compete  in  what  was  known  as  the  Winners' 
class — a  contest  whose  entrants  included  every 
class-victor  from  Novice  to  Open.  Briefly,  this 
special  competition  was  to  determine  which  class- 
winner  was  the  best  collie  in  the  whole  list  of 
winners  and,  as  such,  entitled  to  a  certain  number 
of  "points"  toward  a  championship.  There  were 
eight  of  these  winners. 

One  or  two  such  world-famed  champions  as 
Grey  Mist  and  Southport  Sample  were  in  the  show 
"for  exhibition  only."  But  the  pick  of  the  re- 
maining leaders  must  compete  in  the  winners'  class 


120  LAD:    A  DOG 

— Sunnybank  Lad  among  them.  The  Master's 
heart  sank  at  this  news. 

"I'm  sorry!"  he  said.  "You  see,  it's  one  thing 
to  win  as  a  Novice  against  a  bunch  of  untried  dogs, 
and  quite  another  to  compete  against  the  best  dogs 
in  the  show.  I  wish  we  could  get  out  of  it." 

"Never  mind!"  answered  the  Mistress.  "Laddie 
has  won  his  ribbon.  They  can't  take  that  away 
from  him.  There's  a  silver  cup  for  the  Winners' 
class,  though.  I  wish  there  had  been  one  for  the 
Novices." 

The  day  wore  on.  At  last  came  the  call  for 
"Winners!"  And  for  the  second  time  poor  Lad 
plodded  reluctantly  into  the  ring  with  the  Mistress. 
But  now,  instead  of  novice  dogs,  he  was  confronted 
by  the  cream  of  colliedom. 

Lad's  heartsick  aspect  showed  the  more  intensely 
in  such  company.  It  grieved  the  Mistress  bitterly 
to  see  his  disconsolate  air.  She  thought  of  the 
three  days  and  nights  to  come — the  nights  when 
she  and  the  Master  could  not  be  with  him,  when 
he  must  lie  listening  to  the  babel  of  yells  and  barks 
all  around,  with  nobody  to  speak  to  him  except 
some  neglectful  and  sleepy  attendant.  And  for 
the  sake  of  a  blue  ribbon  she  had  brought  this  upon 
him! 

The  Mistress  came  to  a  sudden  and  highly  un- 
sportsmanlike resolution. 

Again  the  dogs  paraded  the  ring.  Again  the 
judge  studied  them  from  between  half -shut  eyes. 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON 

But  this  time  he  did  not  wave  Lad  to  one  side. 
The  Mistress  had  noted,  during  the  day,  that 
McGilead  had  always  made  known  his  decisions  by 
first  laying  his  hand  on  the  victor's  head.  And 
she  watched  breathless  for  such  a  gesture. 

One  by  one  the  dogs  were  weeded  out  until  only 
two  remained.  Of  these  two,  one  was  Lad — the 
Mistress'  heart  banged  crazily — and  the  other  was 
Champion  Coldstream  Guard.  The  Champion  was 
a  grand  dog,  gold-and-white  of  hue,  perfect  of  coat 
and  line,  combining  all  that  was  best  in  the  old  and 
new  styles  of  collies.  He  carried  his  head  nobly 
aloft  with  no  help  from  the  choke-collar.  His 
"tulip"  ears  hung  at  precisely  the  right  curve. 

Lad  and  Coldstream  Guard  were  placed  shoulder 
to  shoulder  on  the  platform.  Even  the  Mistress 
could  not  fail  to  contrast  her  pet's  woe-begone 
aspect  with  the  Champion's  alert  beauty. 

"Lad!"  she  said,  very  low,  and  speaking  with 
slow  intentness  as  McGilead  compared  the  two. 
"Laddie,  we're  going  home.  Home !  Home,  Lad !" 

Home!  At  the  word,  a  thrill  went  through  the 
great  dog.  His  shoulders  squared.  Up  went  his 
head  and  his  ears.  His  dark  eyes  fairly  glowed 
with  eagerness  as  he  looked  expectantly  up  at  the 
Mistress.  Home! 

Yet,  despite  the  transformation,  the  other  was 
the  finer  dog — from  a  mere  show  viewpoint.  The 
Mistress  could  see  he  was.  Even  the  new  uptilt 


LAD:    A  DOG 

of  Lad's  cars  could  not  make  those  ears  so  perfect 
in  shape  and  attitude  as  were  the  Champion's. 

With  almost  a  gesture  of  regret  McGilead  laid 
his  hand  athwart  Coldstream  Guard's  head.  The 
Mistress  read  the  verdict,  and  she  accepted  it. 

"Come,  Laddie,  dear,"  she  said  tenderly. 
"You're  second,  anyway,  Reserve-Winner*  That's 
something." 

"Wait!"  snapped  McGilead. 

The  judge  was  seizing  one  of  Champion  Cold- 
stream  Guard's  supershapely  ears  and  turning  it 
backward.  His  sensitive  fingers,  falling  on  the 
dog's  head  in  token  of  victory,  had  encountered 
an  odd  stiffness  in  the  curve  of  the  ear.  Now  he 
began  to  examine  that  ear,  and  then  the  other,  and 
thereby  he  disclosed  a  most  clever  bit  of  surgical 
bandaging. 

Neatly  crisscrossed,  inside  each  of  the  Cham- 
pion's ears,  was  a  succession  of  adhesive-plaster 
strips  cut  thin  and  running  from  tip  to  orifice. 
The  scientific  applying  of  these  strips  had  painfully 
imparted  to  the  prick-ears  (the  dog's  one  flaw) 
the  perfect  tulip-shape  so  desirable  as  a  show- 
quality.  Champion  Coldstream  Guard's  silken  ears 
could  not  have  had  other  than  ideal  shape  and 
posture  if  he  had  wanted  them  to — while  that 
crisscross  of  sticky  strips  held  them  in  position! 

Now,  this  was  no  new  trick — the  ruse  that  the 
Champion's  handlers  had  employed.  Again  and 
again  in  bench-shows,  it  had  been  employed  upon 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        123 

bull-terriers.  A  year  or  two  ago  a  woman  was 
ordered  from  the  ring,  at  the  Garden,  when  plaster 
was  found  inside  her  terrier's  ears,  but  seldom  be- 
fore had  it  been  detected  in  a  collie — in  which  a 
prick-ear  usually  counts  as  a  fatal  blemish. 

McGilead  looked  at  the  Champion.  Long  and 
searchingly  he  looked  at  the  man  who  held  the 
Champion's  leash — and  who  fidgeted  grinningly 
under  the  judge's  glare.  Then  McGilead  laid  both 
hands  on  Lad's  great  honest  head — almost  as  in 
benediction. 

"Your  dog  wins,  Madam,"  he  said,  "and  while 
it  is  no  part  of  a  judge's  duty  to  say  so,  I  am 
heartily  glad.  I  won't  insult  you  by  asking  if  he 

is  for  sale,  but  if  ever  you  have  to  part  with 
•i  •  »> 

He  did  not  finish,  but  abruptly  gave  the  Mistress 
the  "Winning  Class"  rosette. 

And  now,  as  Lad  left  the  ring,  hundreds  of 
hands  were  put  out  to  pat  him.  All  at  once  he 
was  a  celebrity. 

Without  returning  the  dog  to  the  bench,  the  Mis- 
tress went  directly  to  th'e  collie  man. 

"When  do  they  present  the  cups?"  she  asked. 

"Not  until  Saturday  night,  I  believe,"  said  ths 
man.  "I  congratulate  you  both  on " 

"In  order  to  win  his  cup,  Lad  will  have  to  staj 
in  this — this  inferno — for  three  days  and  night* 
longer?" 
v  "Of  course.    All  the  dogs " 


124  LAD:    A  DOG 

"If  he  doesn't  stay,  he  won't  get  the  cup?" 

"No.  It  would  go  to  the  Reserve,  I  suppose, 
or  to " 

"Good !"  declared  the  Mistress  in  relief.  "Then 
he  won't  be  defrauding  anyone,  and  they  can't  rob 
him  of  his  two  ribbons  because  I  have  those." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  puzzled  collie 
man. 

But  the  Master  understood — and  approved. 

"Good!"  he  said.  "I  wanted  all  day  to  suggest 
it  to  you,  but  I  didn't  have  the  nerve.  Come  around 
to  the  Exhibitors'  Entrance.  I'll  go  ahead  and  start 
the  car." 

"But  what's  the  idea?"  queried  the  collie  man 
in  bewilderment. 

"The  idea,"  replied  the  Mistress,  "is  that  the 
cup  can  go  to  any  dog  that  wants  it.  Lad's  com- 
ing home.  He  knows  it,  too.  Just  look  at  him. 
I  promised  him  he  should  go  home.  We  can  get 
there  by  dinner-time,  and  he  has  a  day's  fast  to 
make  up  for." 

"But,"  expostulated  the  scandalized  collie  man, 
"if  you  withdraw  your  dog  like  that,  the  Associa- 
tion will  never  allow  you  to  exhibit  him  at  its 
shows  again." 

"The  Association  can  have  a  pretty  silver  cup," 
retorted  the  Mistress,  "to  console  it  for  losing  Lad. 
As  for  exhibiting  him  again — well,  I  wouldn't  lose 
these  two  ribbons  for  a  hundred  dollars,  but  I 
wouldn't  put  my  worst  enemy's  dog  to  the  torture 


FOR  A  BIT  OF  RIBBON        125 

of   winning   them   over   again — for   a    thousand. 
Come  along,  Lad,  we're  going  back  home." 

At  the  talisman-word,  Lad  broke  silence  for  the 
first  time  in  all  that  vilely  wretched  day.  He  broke 
it  with  a  series  of  thunderously  trumpeting  barks 
that  quite  put  to  shame  the  puny  noise-making  ef- 
forts of  every  other  dog  in  the  show. 


CHAPTER  VI 
LOST! 

FOUR  of  us  were  discussing  abstract  themes, 
idly,  as  men  will,  after  a  good  dinner  and 
fn  front  of  a  country-house  fire.  Some- 
one askrd: 

"What  is  the  saddest  sight  in  everyday  life?  I 
don't  mean  the  most  gloomily  tragic,  but  the 
saddest  r 

A  fnvolous  member  of  the  fireside  group  cited 
a  helpless  man  between  two  quarreling  women.  A 
sentimentalist  said: 

"A  lost  child  in  a  city  street." 

The  Dog-Master  contradicted: 

"A  lost  dog  in  a  city  street." 

Nobody  agreed  with  him  of  course;  but  that  was 
because  none  of  the  others  chanced  to  know  dogs — 
to  know  their  psychology — their  souls,  if  you 
prefer,  The  dog-man  was  right.  A  lost  dog  in  a 
city  street  is  the  very  saddest  and  most  hopeless 
sight  Tn  all  a  city  street's  abounding  everyday  sad- 
ness 

Pi    taan  between  two  quarreling  women  is  an 

126 


LOST!  127 

object  piteous  enough,  heaven  knows.  Yet  his 
plight  verges  too  much  on  the  grotesque  to  be 
called  sad. 

A  lost  child  ? — No.  Let  a  child  stand  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  crowded  sidewalk  and  begin  to  cry.  In 
one  minute  fifty  amateur  and  professional  rescuers 
have  flocked  to  the  Lost  One's  aid.  An  hour,  at 
most,  suffices  to  bring  it  in  touch  with  its  frenzied 
guardians. 

A  lost  dog? — Yes.  No  succoring  cohort  surges 
to  the  relief.  A  gang  of  boys,  perhaps,  may  give 
chase,  but  assuredly  not  in  kindness.  A  policeman 
seeking  a  record  for  "mad  dog"  shooting — a  pro- 
fessional dog-catcher  in  quest  of  his  dirty  fee — 
these  will  show  marked  attention  to  the  wanderer. 
But,  again,  not  in  kindness. 

A  dog,  at  some  turn  in  the  street,  misses  his 
master — doubles  back  to  where  the  human  demigod 
was  last  seen — darts  ahead  once  more  to  find  him, 
through  the  press  of  other  human  folk — halts,  hesi- 
tates, begins  the  same  maneuvers  all  over  again; 
then  stands,  shaking  in  panic  at  his  utter  aloneness. 

Get  the  look  in  his  eyes,  then — you  who  do  not 
mind  seeing  such  things — and  answer,  honestly:  Is 
there  anything  sadder  on  earth?  All  this,  before 
the  pursuit  of  boys  and  the  fever  of  thirst  and  the 
final  knowledge  of  desolation  have  turned  him  from 
a  handsome  and  prideful  pet  into  a  slinking  outcast. 

Yes,  a  lost  dog  is  the  saddest  thing  that  can  meet 
the  gaze  of  a  man  or  woman  who  understands  dogs. 


128  LAD:    A  DOG 

As  perhaps  my  story  may  help  to  show — or  per- 
haps not. 

****** 

Lad  had  been  brushed  and  bathed,  daily,  for  a 
week,  until  his  mahogany-and-snow  coat  shone. 
All  this,  at  The  Place,  far  up  in  the  North  Jersey 
hinterland  and  all  to  make  him  presentable  for  the 
Westminster  Kennel  Show  at  New  York's  Madison 
Square  Garden.  After  which,  his  two  gods,  the 
Mistress  and  the  Master  took  him  for  a  thirty-mile 
ride  in  The  Place's  only  car,  one  morning. 

The  drive  began  at  The  Place — the  domain 
where  Lad  had  ruled  as  King  among  the  lesser  folk 
for  so  many  years.  It  ended  at  Madison  Square 
Garden,  where  the  annual  four-day  dog  show  was 
in  progress. 

You  have  read  how  Lad  fared  at  that  show — 
how,  at  the  close  of  the  first  day,  when  he  had  two 
victories  to  his  credit,  the  Mistress  had  taken  pity 
on  his  misery  and  had  decreed  that  he  should  be 
taken  home,  without  waiting  out  the  remaining 
three  days  of  torture-ordeal. 

The  Master  went  out  first,  to  get  the  car  and 
bring  it  around  to  the  side  exit  of  the  Garden. 
The  Mistress  gathered  up  Lad's  belongings — his 
brush,  his  dog  biscuits,  etc.,  and  followed,  with  Lad 
himself. 

Out  of  the  huge  building,  with  its  reverberating 
barks  and  yells  from  two  thousand  canine  throats, 
she  went.  Lad  paced,  happy  and  majestic,  at  hef 


LOST!  129 

side.  He  knew  he  was  going  home,  and  the  un- 
happiness  of  the  hideous  day  dropped  from  him. 

At  the  exit,  the  Mistress  was  forced  to  leave  a 
deposit  of  five  dollars,  "to  insure  the  return  of  the 
dog  to  his  bench"  (to  which  bench  of  agony  she 
vowed,  secretly,  Lad  should  never  return).  Then 
she  was  told  the  law  demands  that  all  dogs  in  New 
York  City  streets  shall  be  muzzled. 

In  vain  she  explained  that  Lad  would  be  in  the 
streets  only  for  such  brief  time  as  the  car  would 
require  to  journey  to  the  One  Hundred  and  Thir- 
tieth Street  ferry.  The  door  attendant  insisted  that 
the  law  was  inexorable.  So,  lest  a  policeman  hold 
up  the  car  for  such  disobedience  to  the  city  statutes, 
the  Mistress  reluctantly  bought  a  muzzle. 

It  was  a  big,  awkward  thing,  made  of  steel,  and 
bound  on  with  leather  straps.  It  looked  like  a  rat- 
trap.  And  it  fenced  in  the  nose  and  mouth  of  its 
owner  with  a  wicked  criss-cross  of  shiny  metal 
bars. 

Never  in  all  his  years  had  Lad  worn  a  muzzle. 
Never,  until  to-day,  had  he  been  chained.  The 
splendid  eighty-pound  collie  had  been  as  free  of 
The  Place  and  of  the  forests  as  any  human;  and 
with  no  worse  restrictions  than  his  own  soul  and 
conscience  put  upon  him. 

To  him  this  muzzle  was  a  horror.  Not  even  the 
loved  touch  of  the  Mistress'  dear  fingers,  as  she 
adjusted  the  thing  to  his  beautiful  head,  could 
lessen  the  degradation.  And  the  discomfort  of  it — 


130  LAD:    A  DOG 

a  discomfort  that  amounted  to  actual  pain — was 
almost  as  bad  as  the  humiliation. 

With  his  absurdly  tiny  white  forepaws,  the  huge 
dog  sought  to  dislodge  the  torture-implement.  He 
strove  to  rub  it  off  against  the  Mistress'  skirt.  But 
beyond  shifting  it  so  that  the  forehead  strap 
covered  one  of  his  eyes,  he  could  not  budge  it. 

Lad  looked  up  at  the  Mistress  in  wretched  appeal. 
His  look  held  no  resentment,  nothing  but  sad  en- 
treaty. She  was  his  deity.  All  his  life  she  had 
given  him  of  her  gentleness,  her  affection,  her  sweet 
understanding.  Yet,  to-day,  she  had  brought  him 
to  this  abode  of  noisy  torment,  and  had  kept  him 
there  from  morning  to  dusk.  And  now — just  as 
the  vigil  seemed  ended — she  was  tormenting  him, 
to  nerve-rack,  by  this  contraption  she  had  fastened 
over  his  nose.  Lad  did  not  rebel.  But  he  besought. 
And  the  Mistress  understood. 

"Laddie,  dear!"  she  whispered,  as  she  led  him 
across  the  sidewalk  to  the  curb  where  the  Master 
waited  for  the  car.  "Laddie,  old  friend,  I'm  just 
as  sorry  about  it  as  you  are.  But  it's  only  for  a 
few  minutes.  Just  as  soon  as  we  get  to  the  ferry, 
we'll  take  it  off  and  throw  it  into  the  river.  And 
we'll  never  bring  you  again  where  dogs  have  to 
wear  such  things.  I  promise.  It's  only  for  a  few 
minutes." 

The  Mistress,  for  once,  was  mistaken.  Lad  was 
to  wear  the  accursed  muzzle  for  much,  much  longer 
than  "a  few  minutes." 


LOST!  131 

"Give  him  the  back  seat  to  himself,  and  come  in 
front  here  with  me,"  suggested  the  Master,  as  the 
Mistress  and  Lad  arrived  alongside  the  car.  'The 
poor  old  chap  has  been  so  cramped  up  and  pestered 
all  day  that  he'll  like  to  have  a  whole  seat  to  stretch 
out  on." 

Accordingly,  the  Mistress  opened  the  door  and 
motioned  Lad  to  the  back  seat.  At  a  bound  the 
collie  was  on  the  cushion,  and  proceeded  to  curl  up 
thereon.  The  Mistress  got  into  the  front  seat  with 
the  Master.  The  car  set  forth  on  its  six-mile  run 
to  the  ferry. 

Now  that  his  face  was  turned  homeward,  Lad 
might  have  found  vast  interest  in  his  new  surround- 
ings, had  not  the  horrible  muzzle  absorbed  all  his 
powers  of  emotion.  The  Milan  Cathedral,  the  Taj 
Mahal,  the  Valley  of  the  Arno  at  sunset — these  be 
sights  to  dream  of  for  years.  But  show  them  to  a 
man  who  has  an  ulcerated  tooth,  or  whose  tight, 
new  shoes  pinch  his  soft  corn,  and  he  will  probably 
regard  them  as  Lad  just  then  viewed  the  twilight 
New  York  streets. 

He  was  a  dog  of  forest  and  lake  and  hill,  this 
giant  collie  with  his  mighty  shoulders  and  tiny  white 
feet  and  shaggy  burnished  coat  and  mournful  eyes. 
Never  before  had  he  been  in  a  city.  The  myriad 
blended  noises  confused  and  deafened  him.  The 
myriad  blended  smells  assailed  his  keen  nostrils. 
The  swirl  of  countless  multicolored  lights  stung  and 
blurred  his  vision.  Noises,  smells  and  lights  were 


132  LAD:    A  DOG 

all  jarringly  new  to  him.  So  were  the  jostling 
masses  of  people  on  the  sidewalk  and  the  tangle  and 
hustle  of  vehicular  traffic  through  which  the  Master 
was  threading  the  car's  way  with  such  difficulty. 

But,  newest  and  most  sickening  of  all  the  day's 
novelties  was  the  muzzle. 

Lad  was  quite  certain  the  Mistress  did  not  realize 
how  the  muzzle  was  hurting  him  nor  how  he  de- 
tested it.  In  all  her  dealings  with  him — or  with 
anyone  or  anything  else — the  Mistress  had  never 
been  unkind ;  and  most  assuredly  not  cruel.  It  must 
be  she  did  not  understand.  At  all  events,  she  had 
not  scolded  or  forbidden,  when  he  had  tried  to  rub 
the  muzzle  off.  So  the  wearing  of  this  new  torture 
was  apparently  no  part  of  the  law.  And  Lad  felt 
justified  in  striving  again  to  remove  it. 

In  vain  he  pawed  the  thing,  first  with  one  foot, 
then  with  both.  He  could  joggle  it  from  side  to  side, 
but  that  was  all.  And  each  shift  of  the  steel  bars 
hurt  his  tender  nose  and  tenderer  sensibilities  worse 
than  the  one  before.  He  tried  to  rub  it  off  against 
the  seat  cushion — with  the  same  distressing  result. 

Lad  looked  up  at  the  backs  of  his  gods,  and 
whined  very  softly.  The  sound  went  unheard,  in  the 
babel  of  noise  all  around  him.  Nor  did  the  Mistress, 
or  the  Master  turn  around,  on  general  principles,  to 
speak  a  word  of  cheer  to  the  sufferer.  They  were 
in  a  mixup  of  cross  ways  traffic  that  called  for  every 
atom  of  their  attention,  if  they  were  to  avoid  col- 


LOST!  133 

lision.  It  was  no  time  for  conversation  or  for  dog- 
patting. 

Lad  got  to  his  feet  and  stood,  uncertainly,  on  the 
slippery  leather  cushion,  seeking  to  maintain  his 
balance,  while  he  rubbed  a  corner  of  the  muzzle 
against  one  of  the  supports  of  the  car's  lowered  top. 
Working  away  with  all  his  might,  he  sought  to  get 
leverage  that  would  pry  loose  the  muzzle. 

Just  then  there  was  a  brief  gap  in  the  traffic.  The 
Master  put  on  speed,  and,  darting  ahead  of  a  de- 
livery truck,  sharply  rounded  the  corner  into  a  side 
street. 

The  car's  sudden  twist  threw  Lad  clean  off  his 
precarious  balance  on  the  seat,  and  hurled  him 
against  one  of  the  rear  doors. 

The  door,  insecurely  shut,  could  not  withstand  the 
eighty-pound  impact.  It  burst  open.  And  Lad  was 
flung  out  onto  the  greasy  asphalt  of  the  avenue. 

He  landed  full  on  his  side,  in  the  muck  of  the 
roadway,  with  a  force  that  shook  the  breath  clean 
out  of  him.  Directly  above  his  head  glared  the  twin 
lights  of  the  delivery  truck  the  Master  had  just 
shot  past.  The  truck  was  going  at  a  good  twelve 
miles  an  hour.  And  the  dog  had  fallen  within 
six  feet  of  its  fat  front  wheels. 

Now,  a  collie  is  like  no  other  animal  on  earth. 
He  is,  at  worst,  more  wolf  than  dog.  And,  at  best, 
he  has  more  of  the  wolf's  lightning-swift  instinct 
than  has  any  other  breed  of  canine.  For  which 
reason  Lad  was  not,  then  and  there,  smashed,  flat 


134  LAD:    A  DOG 

and  dead,  under  the  fore-wheels  of  a  three-ton 
truck. 

Even  as  the  tires  grazed  his  fur,  Lad  gathered 
himself  compactly  together,  his  feet  well  under  him, 
and  sprang  far  to  one  side.  The  lumbering  truck 
missed  him  by  less  than  six  inches.  But  it  missed 
him. 

His  leap  brought  him  scramblingly  down  on  all 
fours,  out  of  the  truck's  way,  but  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  thoroughfare.  It  brought  him  under  the  very 
fender  of  a  touring  car  that  was  going  at  a  good 
pace  in  the  opposite  direction.  And  again,  a  leap 
that  was  inspired  by  quick  instinct  alone,  lifted  the 
dog  free  of  this  newest  death-menace. 

He  halted  and  stared  piteously  around  in  search 
of  his  deities.  But  in  that  glare  and  swelter  of 
traffic,  a  trained  human  eye  could  not  have  recog- 
nized any  particular  car.  Moreover,  the  Mistress 
and  Master  were  a  full  half-block  away,  down  the 
less  crowded  side  street,  and  were  making  up  for 
lost  time  by  putting  on  all  the  speed  they  dared, 
before  turning  into  the  next  westward  traffic-artery. 
They  did  not  look  back,  for  there  was  a  car  directly 
in  front  of  them,  whose  driver  seemed  uncertain 
as  to  his  wheel  control,  and  the  Master  was  maneu- 
vering to  pass  it  in  safety. 

Not  until  they  had  reached  the  lower  end  of 
Riverside  Drive,  nearly  a  mile  to  the  north,  did 
either  the  Master  or  Mistress  turn  around  for  a 
word  with  the  dog  they  loved. 


LOST!  135 

Meantime,  Lad  was  standing,  irresolute  and  pant- 
^ng,  in  the  middle  of  Columbus  Circle.  Cars  of  a 
million  types,  from  flivver  to  trolley,  seemed  to  be 
whizzing  directly  at  him  from  every  direction  at 
once. 

A  bound,  a  dodge,  or  a  deft  shrinking  back  would 
carry  him  out  of  one  such  peril — barely  out  of  it — 
when  another,  or  fifty  others,  beset  him. 

And,  all  the  time,  even  while  he  was  trying  to 
duck  out  of  danger,  his  frightened  eyes  and  his 
pulsing  nostrils  sought  the  Mistress  and  the  Master. 

His  eyes,  in  that  mixture  of  flare  and  dusk,  told 
him  nothing  except  that  a  host  of  motors  were 
iikely  to  kill  him.  But  his  nose  told  him  what  it 
had  not  been  able  to  tell  him  since  morning — 
namely,  that,  through  the  reek  of  gasoline  and  horse- 
flesh and  countless  human  scents,  there  was  a  near- 
ness of  fields  and  woods  and  water.  And,  toward 
that  blessed  mingling  of  familiar  odors  he  dodged 
his  threatened  way. 

By  a  miracle  of  luck  and  skill  he  crossed  Colum- 
bus Circle,  and  came  to  a  standstill  on  a  sidewalk, 
beside  a  low  gray  stone  wall.  Behind  the  wall,  his 
nose  taught  him,  lay  miles  of  meadow  and  wood  and 
lake — Central  Park.  But  the  smell  of  the  Park 
brought  him  no  scent  of  the  Mistress  nor  of  the 
Master.  And  it  was  they — infinitely  more  than  his 
beloved  countryside — that  he  craved.  He  ran  up 
the  street,  on  the  sidewalk,  for  a  few  rods,  hesitant, 
alert,  watching  in  every  direction.  Then,  perhaps 


136  LAD:    A  DOG 

seeing  a  figure,  in  the  other  direction,  that  looked 
familiar,  he  dashed  at  top  speed,  eastward,  for  half 
a  block.  Then  he  made  a  peril-fraught  sortie  out 
into  the  middle  of  the  traffic-humming  street,  de- 
ceived by  the  look  of  a  passing  car. 

The  car  was  traveling  at  twenty  miles  an  hour. 
But,  in  less  than  a  block,  Lad  caught  up  with  it. 
And  this,  in  spite  of  the  many  things  he  had  to 
dodge,  and  the  greasy  slipperiness  of  the  unfamiliar 
roadway.  An  upward  glance,  as  he  came  alongside 
the  car,  told  him  his  chase  was  in  vain.  And  he 
made  his  precarious  way  to  the  sidewalk  once  more. 

There  he  stood,  bewildered,  heartsick — lost! 

Yes,  he  was  lost.  And  he  realized  it — realized 
it  as  fully  as  would  a  city-dweller  snatched  up  by 
magic  and  set  down  amid  the  trackless  Himalayas. 
He  was  lost.  And  Horror  bit  deep  into  his  soul. 

The  average  dog  might  have  continued  to  waste 
energy  and  risk  life  by  galloping  aimlessly  back  and 
forth,  running  hopefully  up  to  every  stranger  he 
met ;  then  slinking  off  in  scared  disappointment  and 
searching  afresh. 

Lad  was  too  wise  for  that.  He  was  lost.  His 
adored  Mistress  had  somehow  left  him ;  as  had  the 
Master;  in  this  bedlam  place — all  alone.  He  stood 
there,  hopeless,  head  and  tail  adroop,  his  great  heart 
dead  within  him. 

Presently  he  became  aware  once  more  that  he  was 
still  wearing  his  abominable  muzzle.  In  the  stress 
of  the  past  few  minutes  Lad  had  actually  forgotten 


LOST!  137 

the  pain  and  vexation  of  the  thing.  Now,  the  mem- 
ory of  it  came  back,  to  add  to  his  despair. 

And,  as  a  sick  animal  will  ever  creep  to  the 
woods  and  the  waste  places  for  solitude,  so  the 
soul-sick  Lad  now  turned  from  the  clangor  and 
evil  odors  of  the  street  to  seek  the  stretch  of  coun- 
try-land he  had  scented. 

Over  the  gray  wall  he  sprang,  and  came  earth- 
ward with  a  crash  among  the  leafless  shrubs  that 
edged  the  south  boundary  of  Central  Park. 

Here  in  the  Park  there  were  people  and  lights 
and  motor-cars,  too,  but  they  were  few,  and  they 
were  far  off.  Around  the  dog  was  a  grateful 
darkness  and  aloneness.  He  lay  down  on  the  dead 
grass  and  panted. 

The  time  was  late  February.  The  weather  of 
the  past  day  or  two  had  been  mild.  The  brown- 
gray  earth  and  the  black  trees  had  a  faint  odor 
of  slow-coming  spring,  though  no  nostrils  less 
acute  than  a  dog's  could  have  noted  it. 

Through  the  misery  at  his  heart  and  the  carking 
pain  from  his  muzzle,  Lad  began  to  realize  that 
he  was  tired,  also  that  he  was  hollow  from  lack  of 
food.  The  long  day's  ordeal  of  the  dog  show  had 
wearied  him  and  had  worn  down  his  nerves  more 
than  could  a  fifty-mile  run.  The  nasty  thrills  of  the 
past  half-hour  had  completed  his  fatigue.  He  had 
eaten  nothing  all  day.  Like  most  high-strung  dogs 
at  a  show,  he  had  drunk  a  great  deal  of  water  and 
had  refused  to  touch  a  morsel  of  food. 


138  LAD:    A  DOG 

He  was  not  hungry  even  now  for,  in  a  dog, 
hunger  goes  only  with  peace  of  mind,  but  he  was 
cruelly  thirsty.  He  got  up  from  his  slushy  couch 
on  the  dead  turf  and  trotted  wearily  toward  the 
nearest  branch  of  the  Central  Park  lake.  At  the 
brink  he  stooped  to  drink. 

Soggy  ice  still  covered  the  lake,  but  the  mild 
weather  had  left  a  half-inch  skim  of  water  over 
it.  Lad  tried  to  lap  up  enough  of  this  water  to 
allay  his  craving  thirst.  He  could  not. 

The  muzzle  protruded  nearly  an  inch  beyond  his 
nose.  Either  through  faulty  adjustment  or  from 
his  own  futile  efforts  to  scrape  it  off,  the  awkward 
steel  hinge  had  become  jammed  and  would  not  open. 
Lad  could  not  get  his  teeth  a  half -inch  apart. 

After  much  effort  he  managed  to  protrude  the 
end  of  his  pink  tongue  and  to  touch  the  water  with 
it,  but  it  was  a  painful  and  drearily  slow  process 
absorbing  water  drop  by  drop  in  this  way.  More< 
through  fatigue  than  because  his  thirst  was  slaked, 
he  stopped  at  last  and  turned  away  from  the  lake. 

The  next  half -hour  was  spent  in  a  diligent  and 
torturing  and  wholly  useless  attempt  to  rid  himself 
of  his  muzzle. 

After  which  the  dog  lay  panting  and  athirst 
once  more;  his  tender  nose  sore  and  bruised  and 
bleeding;  the  muzzle  as  firmly  fixed  in  place  as 
ever.  Another  journey  to  the  lake  and  another 
Tantalus-effort  to  drink — and  the  pitifully  harassed 
dog's  uncanny  brain  began  to  work. 


LOST!  139 

He  no  longer  let  himself  heed  the  muzzle.  Ex- 
perience of  the  most  painful  sort  had  told  him  he 
could  not  dislodge  it  nor,  in  that  clamorous  and  ill- 
smelling  city  beyond  the  park  wall,  could  he  hope 
to  find  the  Mistress  and  the  Master.  These  things 
being  certain,  his  mind  went  on  to  the  next  step, 
and  the  next  step  was — Home! 

Home!  The  Place  where  his  happy,  beautiful 
life  had  been  spent,  where  his  two  gods  abode, 
where  there  were  no  clang  and  reek  and  peril  as 
here  in  New  York.  Home! — The  House  of 
Peace ! 

Lad  stood  up.  He  drew  in  great  breaths  of  the 
muggy  air,  and  he  turned  slowly  about  two  or 
three  times,  head  up,  nostrils  aquiver.  For  a  full 
minute  he  stood  thus.  Then  he  lowered  his  head 
and  trotted  westward.  No  longer  he  moved  un- 
certainly, but  with  as  much  sureness  as  if  he  were 
traversing  the  forest  behind  The  Place — the  forest 
that  had  been  his  roaming-ground  since  puppyhood. 

(Now,  this  is  not  a  fairy  story,  nor  any  other 
type  of  fanciful  yarn,  so  I  do  not  pretend  to  ac- 
count for  Lad's  heading  unswervingly  toward  the 
northwest  in  the  exact  direction  of  The  Place,  thirty 
miles  distant,  any  more  than  I  can  account  for  the 
authenticated  case  of  a  collie  who,  in  1917,  made 
his  way  four  hundred  miles  from  the  home  of  a 
new  owner  in  southern  Georgia  to  the  doorstep  of 
his  former  and  better  loved  master  in  the  moun- 
tains of  North  Carolina;  any  more  than  I  can  ao 


140  LAD:    A  DOG 

count  for  the  flight  of  a  homing  pigeon  or  for  that 
of  the  northbound  duck  in  Spring.  God  gives  to 
certain  animals  a  whole  set  of  mystic  traits  which 
He  withholds  utterly  from  humans.  No  dog- 
student  can  doubt  that,  and  no  dog-student  or  deep- 
delving  psychologist  can  explain  it.) 

Northwestward  jogged  Lad,  and  in  half  a  mile 
he  came  to  the  low  western  wall  of  Central  Park. 
Without  turning  aside  to  seek  a  gateway,  he  cleared 
the  wall  and  found  himself  on  Eighth  Avenue  in 
the  very  middle  of  a  block. 

Keeping  on  the  sidewalk  and  paying  no  heed  to 
the  few  pedestrians,  he  moved  along  to  the  next 
westward  street  and  turned  down  it  toward  the 
Hudson  River.  So  calmly  and  certainly  did  he 
move  that  none  would  have  taken  him  for  a  lost 
dog. 

Under  the  roaring  elevated  road  at  Columbus 
Avenue,  he  trotted;  his  ears  tormented  by  the 
racket  of  a  train  that  reverberated  above  him;  his 
sense  so  blurred  by  the  sound  that  he  all  but  for- 
got to  dodge  a  southbound  trolley  car. 

Down  the  cross  street  to  Amsterdam  Avenue  he 
bore.  A  patrolman  on  his  way  to  the  West  Sixty- 
ninth  Street  police  station  to  report  for  night  duty, 
was  so  taken  up  by  his  own  lofty  thoughts  that 
he  quite  forgot  to  glance  at  the  big  mud-spattered 
dog  that  padded  past  him. 

For  this  lack  of  observation  the  patrolman  was 
destined  to  lose  a  good  opportunity  for  fattening 
I 


LOST!  141 

his  monthly  pay.  Because,  on  reaching  the  station, 
he  learned  that  a  distressed  man  and  woman  had 
just  been  there  in  a  car  to  offer  a  fifty-dollar  re- 
ward for  the  finding  of  a  big  mahogany-and-white 
collie,  answering  to  the  name  of  "Lad." 

As  the  dog  reached  Amsterdam  Avenue  a  high 
little  voice  squealed  delightedly  at  him.  A  three- 
year-old  baby — a  mere  fluff  of  gold  and  white  and 
pink — was  crossing  the  avenue  convoyed  by  a  fat 
woman  in  black.  Lad  was  jogging  by  the  mother 
and  child  when  the  latter  discovered  the  passing 
dog. 

With  a  shriek  of  joyous  friendliness  the  baby 
flung  herself  upon  Lad  and  wrapped  both  arms 
about  his  shaggy  neck. 

"Why  doggieT  she  shrilled,  ecstatically.  "Why, 
dear,  dear  doggie !" 

Now  Lad  was  in  dire  haste  to  get  home,  and 
Lad  was  in  dire  misery  of  mind  and  body,  but  his 
big  heart  went  out  in  eagerly  loving  answer  to  the 
impulsive  caress.  He  worshipped  children,  and 
would  cheerfully  endure  from  them  any  amount 
of  mauling. 

At  the  baby  embrace  and  the  baby  voice,  he 
stopped  short  in  his  progress.  His  plumy  tail 
wagged  in  glad  friendliness;  his  muzzled  nose 
sought  wistfully  to  kiss  the  pink  little  face  on  a 
level  with  his  own.  The  baby  tightened  her  hug, 
and  laid  her  rose  leaf  cheek  close  to  his  own. 


142  LAD:    A  DOG 

"I  love  you,  Miss  Doggie!"  she  whispered  in 
Lad's  ear. 

Then  the  fat  woman  in  black  bore  down  upon 
them.  Fiercely,  she  yanked  the  baby  away  from 
the  dog.  Then,  seeing  that  the  mud  on  Lad's 
shoulder  had  soiled  the  child's  white  coat,  she 
whirled  a  string- fastened  bundle  aloft  and  brought 
it  down  with  a  resounding  thwack  over  the  dog's 
head. 

Lad  winched  under  the  heavy  blow,  then  hot 
resentment  blazed  through  his  first  instant  of 
grieved  astonishment.  This  unpleasant  fat  creature 
in  black  was  not  a  man,  wherefore  Lad  contented 
himself  by  baring  his  white  teeth,  and  with  growl- 
ing deep  menace  far  down  in  his  throat. 

The  woman  shrank  back  scared,  and  she 
screamed  loudly.  On  the  instant  the  station-bound 
patrolman  was  beside  her. 

"What's  wrong,  ma'am?"  asked  the  bluecoat. 

The  woman  pointed  a  wobbly  and  fat  forefinger 
at  Lad,  who  had  taken  up  his  westward  journey 
again  and  was  halfway  across  the  street. 

"Mad  dog!"  she  sputtered,  hysterically.  "He — 
he  bit  me !  Bit  at  me,  anyhow !" 

Without  waiting  to  hear  the  last  qualifying  sen- 
tence, the  patrolman  gave  chase.  Here  was  a  chance 
for  honorable  blotter-mention  at  the  very  least.  As 
he  ran  he  drew  his  pistol. 

Lad  had  reached  the  westward  pavement  of 
Amsterdam  Avenue  and  was  in  the  side  street  be- 


LOST!  143 

yond.  He  was  not  hurrying,  but  his  short  wolf- 
trot  ate  up  ground  in  deceptively  quick  time. 

By  the  time  the  policeman  had  reached  the  west 
corner  of  street  and  avenue  the  dog  was  nearly  a 
half-block  ahead.  The  officer,  still  running,  leveled 
his  pistol  and  fired. 

Now,  anyone  (but  a  very  newly-appointed  patrol- 
man or  a  movie-hero)  knows  that  to  fire  a  shot 
when  running  is  worse  than  fatal  to  any  chance 
of  accuracy.  No  marksman — no  one  who  has  the 
remotest  knowledge  of  marksmanship — will  do  such 
a  thing.  The  very  best  pistol-expert  cannot  hope 
to  hit  his  target  if  he  is  joggling  his  own  arm  and 
his  whole  body  by  the  motion  of  running. 

The  bullet  flew  high  and  to  the  right,  smashing 
a  second-story  window  and  making  the  echoes  re- 
sound deafeningly  through  the  narrow  street. 

*  What's  up?"  excitedly  asked  a  boy,  who  stood 
beside  a  barrel  bonfire  with  a  group  of  chums. 

"Mad  dog !"  puffed  the  policeman  as  he  sped  past. 

At  once  the  boys  joined  gleesomely  in  the  chase, 
outdistancing  the  officer,  just  as  the  latter  fired  a 
second  shot. 

Lad  felt  a  white-hot  ridge  of  pain  cut  along  his 
left  flank  like  a  whip-lash.  He  wheeled  to  face 
his  invisible  foe,  and  he  found  himself  looking  at 
a  half-dozen  boys  who  charged  whoopingly  down 
on  him.  Behind  the  boys  clumped  a  man  in  blue 
flourishing  something  bright. 

Lad  had  no  taste   for  this  sort  of  attention. 


144  LAD:    A  DOG 

Always  he  had  loathed  strangers,  and  these  new 
strangers  seemed  bent  on  catching  him — on  barring 
his  homeward  way. 

He  wheeled  around  again  and  continued  his  west- 
ward journey  at  a  faster  pace.  The  hue-and-cry 
broke  into  louder  yells  and  three  or  four  new  re- 
cruits joined  the  pursuers.  The  yap  of  "Mad  dog! 
Mad  dog!"  filled  the  air. 

Not  one  of  these  people — not  even  the  police- 
man himself — had  any  evidence  that  the  collie  was 
mad.  There  are  not  two  really  rabid  dogs  seen  at 
large  in  New  York  or  in  any  other  city  in  the 
course  of  a  year.  Yet,  at  the  back  of  the  human 
throat  ever  lurks  that  fool-cry  of  "Mad  dog!" — 
ever  ready  to  leap  forth  into  shouted  words  at  the 
faintest  provocation. 

One  wonders,  disgustedly,  how  many  thousand 
luckless  and  totally  harmless  pet  dogs  in  the  course 
of  a  year  are  thus  hunted  down  and  shot  or  kicked 
or  stoned  to  death  in  the  sacred  name  of  Humanity, 
just  because  some  idiot  mistakes  a  hanging  tongue 
or  an  uncertainty  of  direction  for  signs  of  that 
semi-phantom  malady  known  as  "rabies." 

A  dog  is  lost.  He  wanders  to  and  fro  in  be- 
wilderment. Boys  pelt  or  chase  him.  His  tongue 
lolls  and  his  eyes  glaze  with  fear.  Then,  ever,  rises 
the  yell  of  "Mad  Dog!"  And  a  friendly,  lovable 
pet  is  joyfully  done  to  death. 

Lad  crossed  Broadway,  threading  his  way 
through  the  trolley-and-taxi  procession,  and  gal- 


LOST!  145 

loped  down  the  hill  toward  Riverside  Park.  Close 
always  at  his  heels  followed  the  shouting  crowd. 
Twice,  by  sprinting,  the  patrolman  gained  the  front 
rank  of  the  hunt,  and  twice  he  fired — both  bullets 
going  wide.  Across  West  End  Avenue  and  across 
Riverside  Drive  went  Lad,  hard-pressed  and  fleeing 
at  top  speed.  The  cross-street  ran  directly  down 
to  a  pier  that  jutted  a  hundred  feet  out  into  the 
Hudson  River. 

Along  this  pier  flew  Lad,  not  in  panic  terror, 
but  none  the  less  resolved  that  these  howling  New 
Yorkers  should  not  catch  him  and  prevent  his  going 
home. 

Onto  the  pier  the  clattering  hue-and-cry  fol- 
lowed. A  dock  watchman,  as  Lad  flashed  by, 
hurled  a  heavy  joist  of  wood  at  the  dog.  It 
whizzed  past  the  flying  hind  legs,  scoring  the  barest 
of  misses. 

And  now  Lad  was  at  the  pier  end.  Behind  him 
the  crowd  raced;  sure  it  had  the  dangerous  brute 
cornered  at  last. 

On  the  string-piece  the  collie  paused  for  the 
briefest  of  moments  glancing  to  north  and  to  south. 
Everywhere  the  wide  river  stretched  away,  un- 
bridged.  It  must  be  crossed  if  he  would  continue 
his  homeward  course,  and  there  was  but  one  way 
for  him  to  cross  it. 

The  watchman,  hard  at  his  heels,  swung  upward 
the  club  he  carried.  Down  came  the  club  with 


146  LAD:    A  DOG 

murderous  force — upon  the  stringpiece  where  Lad 
had  been  standing. 

Lad  was  no  longer  there.  One  great  bound  had 
carried  him  over  the  edge  and  into  the  black  water 
below. 

Down  he  plunged  into  the  river  and  far,  far 
under  it,  fighting  his  way  gaspingly  to  the  surface. 
The  water  that  gushed  into  his  mouth  and  nostrils 
was  salty  and  foul,  not  at  all  like  the  water  of  the 
lake  at  the  edge  of  The  Place.  It  sickened  him. 
And  the  February  chill  of  the  river  cut  into  him 
like  a  million  ice-needles. 

To  the  surface  he  came,  and  struck  out  valor- 
ously  for  the  opposite  shore  much  more  than  a 
mile  away.  As  his  beautiful  head  appeared,  a  yell 
went  up  from  the  clustering  riff-raff  at  the  pier 
end.  Bits  of  wood  and  coal  began  to  shower  the 
water  all  around  him.  A  pistol  shot  plopped  into 
the  river  a  bare  six  inches  away  from  him. 

But  the  light  was  bad  and  the  stream  was  a  toss- 
ing mass  of  blackness  and  of  light-blurs,  and  pres- 
ently the  dog  swam,  unscathed,  beyond  the  range 
of  missiles. 

Now  a  swim  of  a  mile  or  of  two  miles  was  no 
special  exploit  for  Lad — even  in  ice-cold  water,  but 
this  water  was  not  like  any  he  had  swum  in.  The 
tide  was  at  the  turn  for  one  thing,  and  while,  in 
a  way,  this  helped  him,  yet  the  myriad  eddies  and 
cross-currents  engendered  by  it  turned  and  jostled 
and  buffeted  him  in  a  most  perplexing  way.  And 


LOST!  147 

there  were  spars  and  barrels  and  other  obstacles 
that  were  forever  looming  up  just  in  front  of  him 
or  else  banging"  against  his  heaving  sides. 

Once  a  revenue  cutter  passed  not  thirty  feet 
ahead  of  him.  Its  wake  caught  the  dog  and  sucked 
him  under  and  spun  his  body  around  and  around 
before  he  could  fight  clear  of  it. 

His  lungs  were  bursting.  He  was  worn  out.  He 
felt  as  sore  as  if  he  had  been  kicked  for  an  hour. 
The  bullet-graze  along  his  flank  was  hurting  him 
as  the  salt  water  bit  into  it,  and  the  muzzle  half- 
blinded,  half-smothered  him. 

But,  because  of  his  hero  heart  rather  than 
through  his  splendid  strength  and  wisdom,  he 
kept  on. 

For  an  hour  or  more  he  swam  until  at  last  his 
body  and  brain  were  numb,  and  only  the  mechan- 
ical action  of  his  wrenched  muscles  held  him  in 
motion.  Twice  tugs  narrowly  escaped  running  him 
down,  and  in  the  wake  of  each  he  waged  a  fearful 
fight  for  life. 

After  a  century  of  effort  his  groping  forepaws 
felt  the  impact  of  a  submerged  rock,  then  of 
another,  and  with  his  last  vestige  of  strength  Lad 
crawled  feebly  ashore  on  a  narrow  sandspit  at  the 
base  of  the  elephant-gray  Palisades.  There,  he  col- 
lapsed and  lay  shivering,  panting,  struggling  for 
breath. 

Long  he  lay  there,  letting  Nature  bring  back 


148  LAD:    A  DOG 

some  of  his  wind  and  his  motive-power,  his  shaggy 
body  one  huge  pulsing  ache. 

When  he  was  able  to  move,  he  took  up  his 
journey.  Sometimes  swimming,  sometimes  on 
ground,  he  skirted  the  Palisades- foot  to  northward, 
until  he  found  one  of  the  several  precipice-paths 
that  Sunday  picnickers  love  to  climb.  Up  this 
he  made  his  tottering  way,  slowly;  conserving  his 
strength  as  best  he  could. 

On  the  summit  he  lay  down  again  to  rest.  Be- 
hind him,  across  the  stretch  of  black  and  lamp- 
flecked  water,  rose  the  inky  skyline  of  the  city  with 
a  lurid  furnace-glow  between  its  crevices  that 
smote  the  sky.  Ahead  was  a  plateau  with  a  down- 
ward slope  beyond  it. 

Once  more,  getting  to  his  feet,  Lad  stood  and 
sniffed,  turning  his  head  from  side  to  side,  muzzled 
nose  aloft.  Then,  his  bearings  taken,  he  set  off 
again,  but  this  time  his  jog-trot  was  slower  and 
his  light  step  was  growing  heavier.  The  terrible 
strain  of  his  swim  was  passing  from  his  mighty 
sinews,  but  it  was  passing  slowly  because  he  was 
so  tired  and  empty  and  in  such  pain  of  body  and 
mind.  He  saved  his  energies  until  he  should  have 
more  of  them  to  save. 

Across  the  plateau,  down  the  slope,  and  then 
across  the  interminable  salt  meadows  to  westward 
he  traveled;  sometimes  on  road  or  path,  sometimes 
across  field  or  hill,  but  always  in  an  unswerving 
straight  line. 


LOST:  149 

It  was  a  little  before  midnight  that  he  breasted 
the  first  rise  of  Jersey  hills  above  Hackensack. 
Through  a  lightless  one-street  village  he  went, 
head  low,  stride  lumbering,  the  muzzle  weighing 
a  ton  and  composed  of  molten  iron  and  hornet 
stings. 

It  was  the  muzzle — now  his  first  fatigue  had 
slackened — that  galled  him  worst.  Its  torture  was 
beginning  to  do  queer  things  to  his  nerves  and 
brain.  Even  a  stolid,  nerveless  dog  hates  a  muzzle. 
More  than  one  sensitive  dog  has  been  driven  crazy 
by  it. 

Thirst — intolerable  thirst — was  torturing  Lad. 
He  could  not  drink  at  the  pools  and  brooks  he 
crossed.  So  tight-jammed  was  the  steel  jaw-hinge 
now  that  he  could  not  even  open  his  mouth  to  pant, 
which  is  the  crudest  deprivation  a  dog  can  suffer. 

Out  of  the  shadows  of  a  ramshackle  hovel's  front 
yard  dived  a  monstrous  shape  that  hurled  itself 
ferociously  on  the  passing  collie. 

A  mongrel  watchdog — part  mastiff,  part  hound, 
part  anything  you  choose — had  been  dozing  on  his 
squatter-owner's  doorstep  when  the  pad-pad-pad  of 
Lad's  wearily- jogging  feet  had  sounded  on  the  road. 

Other  dogs,  more  than  one  of  them,  during  the 
journey  had  run  out  to  yap  or  growl  at  the 
wanderer,  but  as  Lad  had  been  big  and  had  fol- 
lowed an  unhesitant  course  they  had  not  gone  to 
the  length  of  actual  attack. 

This  mongrel,  however,  was  less  prudent.     Or, 


150  LAD:    A  DOG 

perhaps,  dog-fashion,  he  realized  that  the  muzzle 
rendered  Lad  powerless  and  therefore  saw  every 
prospect  of  a  safe  and  easy  victory.  At  all  events, 
he  gave  no  warning  bark  or  growl  as  he  shot  for- 
ward to  the  attack. 

Lad — his  eyes  dim  with  fatigue  and  road  dust, 
his  ears  dulled  by  water  and  by  noise — did  not  hear 
nor  see  the  foe.  His  first  notice  of  the  attack  was 
a  flying  weight  of  seventy-odd  pounds  that  crashed 
against  his  flank.  A  double  set  of  fangs  in  the 
same  instant,  sank  into  his  shoulder. 

Under  the  onslaught  Lad  fell  sprawlingly  into 
the  road  on  his  left  side,  his  enemy  upon  him. 

As  Lad  went  down  the  mongrel  deftly  shifted 
his  unprofitable  shoulder  grip  to  a  far  more  prom- 
isingly murderous  hold  on  his  fallen  victim's  throat. 

A  cat  has  five  sets  of  deadly  weapons — its 
four  feet  and  its  jaws.  So  has  every  animal  on 
earth — human  and  otherwise — except  a  dog.  A 
dog  is  terrible  by  reason  of  its  teeth.  Encase  the 
mouth  in  a  muzzle  and  a  dog  is  as  helpless  for 
offensive  warfare  as  is  a  newborn  baby. 

And  Lad  was  thus  pitiably  impotent  to  return 
his  foe's  attack.  Exhausted,  flung  prone  to  earth, 
his  mighty  jaws  muzzled,  he  seemed  as  good  as 
dead. 

But  a  collie  down  is  not  a  collie  beaten.  The 
wolf-strain  provides  against  that.  Even  as  he  fell 
Lad  instinctively  gathered  his  legs  under  him  as 
he  had  done  when  he  tumbled  from  the  car. 


LOST!  151 

And,  almost  at  once,  he  was  on  his  feet  again, 
snarling  horribly  and  lunging  to  break  the  mongrel's 
throat-grip.  His  weariness  was  forgotten  and  his 
wondrous  reserve  strength  leaped  into  play.  Which 
was  all  the  good  it  did  him;  for  he  knew  as  well 
as  the  mongrel  that  he  was  powerless  to  use  his 
teeth. 

The  throat  of  a  collie — except  in  one  small  vul- 
nerable spot — is  armored  by  a  veritable  mattress 
of  hair.  Into  this  hair  the  mongrel  had  driven 
his  teeth.  The  hair  filled  his  mouth,  but  his  grind- 
ing jaws  encountered  little  else  to  close  on. 

A  lurching  jerk  of  Lad's  strong  frame  tore  loose 
the  savagely  inefficient  hold.  The  mongrel  sprang 
at  him  for  a  fresh  grip.  Lad  reared  to  meet  him, 
opposing  his  mighty  chest  to  the  charge  and  snap- 
ping powerlessly  with  his  close-locked  mouth. 

The  force  of  Lad's  rearing  leap  sent  the  mongrel 
spinning  back  by  sheer  weight,  but  at  once  he  drove 
in  again  to  the  assault.  This  time  he  did  not  give 
his  muzzled  antagonist  a  chance  to  rear,  but  sprang 
at  Lad's  flank.  Lad  wiieeled  to  meet  the  rush  and, 
opposing  his  shoulder  to  it,  broke  its  force. 

Seeing  himself  so  helpless,  this  was  of  course  the 
time  for  Lad  to  take  to  his  heels  and  try  to  out- 
run the  enemy  he  could  not  outfight.  To  stand 
his  ground  was  to  be  torn,  eventually,  to  death. 
Being  anything  but  a  fool  Lad  knew  that;  yet  he 
ignored  the  chance  of  safety  and  continued  to  fight 
the  worse-than-hopeless  battle. 


152  LAD:    A  DOG 

Twice  and  thrice  his  wit  and  his  uncanny  swift- 
ness enabled  him  to  block  the  big  mongrel's  rushes. 
The  fourth  time,  as  he  sought  to  rear,  his  hind 
foot  slipped  on  a  skim  of  puddle-ice. 

Down  went  Lad  in  a  heap,  and  the  mongrel 
struck. 

Before  the  collie  could  regain  his  feet  the 
mongrel's  teeth  had  found  a  hold  on  the  side  of 
Lad's  throat.  Pinning  down  the  muzzled  dog,  the 
mongrel  proceeded  to  improve  his  hold  by  grinding 
his  way  toward  the  jugular.  Now  his  teeth  en- 
countered something  more  solid  than  mere  hair. 
They  met  upon  a  thin  leather  strap. 

Fiercely  the  mongrel  gnawed  at  this  solid  ob- 
stacle, his  rage-hot  brain  possibly  mistaking  it  for 
flesh.  Lad  writhed  to  free  himself  and  to  regain 
his  feet,  but  seventy-five  pounds  of  fighting  weight 
were  holding  his  neck  to  the  ground. 

Of  a  sudden,  the  mongrel  growled  in  savage 
triumph.  The  strap  was  bitten  through! 

Clinging  to  the  broken  end  of  the  leather  the 
victor  gave  one  final  tug.  The  pull  drove  the  steel 
bars  excruciatingly  deep  into  Lad's  bruised  nose 
for  a  moment.  Then,  by  magic,  the  torture-im- 
plement was  no  longer  on  his  head  but  was  dan- 
gling by  one  strap  between  the  muzzled  mongrel's 
jaws. 

With  a  motion  so  swift  that  the  eye  could  not 
follow  it,  Lad  was  on  his  feet  and  plunging  de- 
liriously into  the  fray.  Through  a  miracle,  his 


LOST!  153 

jaws  were  free;  his  torment  was  over.  The  joy 
of  deliverance  sent  a  glow  of  Berserk  vigor  sweep- 
ing through  him. 

The  mongrel  dropped  the  muzzle  and  came 
eagerly  to  the  battle.  To  his  dismay  he  found  him- 
self fighting  not  a  helpless  dog,  but  a  maniac  wolf. 
Lad  sought  no  permanent  hold.  With  dizzying 
quickness  his  head  and  body  moved — and  kept 
moving,  and  every  motion  meant  a  deep  slash  or 
a  ragged  tear  in  his  enemy's  short-coated  hide. 

With  ridiculous  ease  the  collie  eluded  the  mon- 
grel's awkward  counter-attacks,  and  ever  kept  bor- 
ing in.  To  the  quivering  bone  his  short  front 
teeth  sank.  Deep  and  bloodily  his  curved  tusks 
slashed — as  the  wolf  and  the  collie  alone  can  slash. 

The  mongrel,  swept  off  his  feet,  rolled  howling 
into  the  road;  and  Lad  tore  grimly  at  the  exposed 
under-body. 

Up  went  a  window  in  the  hovel.  A  man's  voice 
shouted.  A  woman  in  a  house  across  the  way 
screamed.  Lad  glanced  up  to  note  this  new  diver- 
sion. The  stricken  mongrel  yelping  in  terror  and 
agony  seized  the  second  respite  to  scamper  back 
to  the  doorstep,  howling  at  every  jump. 

Lad  did  not  pursue  him,  but  jogged  along  on 
his  journey  without  one  backward  look. 

At  a  rivulet,  a  mile  beyond,  he  stopped  to  drink. 
And  he  drank  for  ten  minutes.  Then  he  went  on. 
Unmuzzled  and  with  his  thirst  slaked,  he  forgot 
his  pain,  his  fatigue,  his  muddy  and  blood-caked 


154  LAD:    A  DOG 

and  abraded  coat,  and  the  memory  of  his  night- 
mare day. 

He  was  going  home! 

At  gray  dawn  the  Mistress  and  the  Master 
turned  in  at  the  gateway  of  The  Place.  All  night 
they  had  sought  Lad;  from  one  end  of  Manhattan 
Island  to  the  other — from  Police  Headquarters  to 
dog  pound — they  had  driven.  And  now  the  Master 
was  bringing  his  tired  and  heartsore  wife  home  to 
rest,  while  he  himself  should  return  to  town  and 
to  the  search. 

The  car  chugged  dispiritedly  down  the  driveway 
to  the  house,  but  before  it  had  traversed  half  the 
distance  the  dawn-hush  was  shattered  by  a  thun- 
drous  bark  of  challenge  to  the  invaders. 

Lad,  from  his  post  of  guard  on  the  veranda,  ran 
stiffly  forward  to  bar  the  way.  Then  as  he  ran 
his  eyes  and  nose  suddenly  told  him  these  mysteri- 
ous newcomers  were  his  gods. 

The  Mistress,  with  a  gasp  of  rapturous  unbelief, 
was  jumping  down  from  the  car  before  it  came  to 
a  halt.  On  her  knees,  she  caught  Lad's  muddy  and 
bloody  head  tight  in  her  arms. 

"Oh,  Lad;"  she  sobbed  incoherently.  "Laddie! 
Laddie!" 

Whereat,  by  another  miracle,  Lad's  stiffness  and 
hurts  and  weariness  were  gone.  He  strove  to  lick 
the  dear  face  bending  so  tearfully  above  him. 
Then,  with  an  abandon  of  puppylike  joy,  he  rolled 
on  the  ground  waving  all  four  soiled  little  feet  in 


LOST!  155 

the  air  and  playfully  pretending  to  snap  at  the 
loving  hands  that  caressed  him. 

Which  was  ridiculous  conduct  for  a  stately  and 
full-grown  collie.  But  Lad  didn't  care,  because  it 
made  the  Mistress  stop  crying  and  laugh.  And  that 
was  what  Lad  most  wanted  her  to  do. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  THROWBACK 

THE  Place  was  nine  miles  north  of  the  county- 
seat  city  of  Paterson.  And  yearly,  near 
Paterson,  was  held  the  great  North  Jersey 
Livestock  Fair — a  fair  whose  awards  established 
for  the  next  twelve-month  the  local  rank  of  pure- 
bred cattle  and  sheep  and  pigs  for  thirty  miles  in 
either  direction. 

From  the  Ramapo  hill  pastures,  south  of  Suffern, 
two  days  before  the  fair,  descended  a  flock  of 
twenty  prize  sheep — the  playthings  of  a  man  to 
whom  the  title  of  Wall  Street  Farmer  had  a  lure 
of  its  own — a  lure  that  cost  him  something  like 
$30,000  a  year;  and  which  made  him  a  scourge  to 
all  his  few  friends. 

Among  these  luckless  friends  chanced  to  be  the 
Mistress  and  the  Master  of  The  Place.  And  the 
Gentleman  Farmer  had  decided  to  break  his  sheep's 
fair- ward  journey  by  a  twenty-four-hour  stop  at 
The  Place. 

The  Master,  duly  apprised  of  the  sorry  honor 
planned  for  his  home,  set  aside  a  disused  horse- 
paddock  for  the  woolly  visitors'  use.  Into  this  their 

156 


THE  THROWBACK  157 

shepherd  drove  his  dusty  and  bleating  charges  on 
their  arrival. 

The  shepherd  was  a  somber  Scot.  Nature  had 
begun  the  work  of  somberness  in  his  Highland 
heart.  The  duty  of  working  for  the  Wall  Street 
Farmer  had  added  tenfold  to  the  natural  tendency. 
His  name  was  McGillicuddy,  and  he  looked  it. 

Now,  in  northern  New  Jersey  a  live  sheep  is 
well  nigh  as  rare  as  a  pterodactyl.  This  flock  of 
twenty  had  cost  their  owner  their  weight  in  merino 
wool.  A  dog — especially  a  collie — that  does  not 
know  sheep,  is  prone  to  consider  them  his  lawful 
prey,  in  other  words,  the  sight  of  a  sheep  has 
turned  many  an  otherwise  law-abiding  dog  into 
a  killer. 

To  avoid  so  black  a  smirch  on  The  Place's  hos- 
pitality, the  Master  had  loaded  all  his  collies,  ex- 
cept Lad,  into  the  car,  and  had  shipped  them  off, 
that  morning,  for  a  three-day  sojourn  at  the  board- 
ing kennels,  ten  miles  away. 

"Does  the  Old  Dog  go,  too,  sir?"  asked  The 
Place's  foreman,  with  a  questioning  nod  at  Lad, 
after  he  had  lifted  the  others  into  the  tonneau. 

Lad  was  viewing  the  procedings  from  the  top  of 
the  veranda  steps.  The  Master  looked  at  him,  then 
at  the  car,  and  answered: 

"No.  Lad  has  more  right  here  than  any  measly 
imported  sheep.  He  won't  bother  them  if  I  tell 
him  not  to.  Let  him  stay." 

The  sheep,  convoyed  by  the  misanthropic  McGil- 


158  LAD:    A  DOG 

licuddy,  filed  down  the  drive,  from  the  highroad,  an 
hour  later,  and  were  marshaled  into  the  corral. 

As  the  jostling  procession,  followed  by  its  dour 
shepherd,  turned  in  at  the  gate  of  The  Place,  Lad 
rose  from  his  rug  on  the  veranda.  His  nostrils 
itching  with  the  unfamiliar  odor,  his  soft  eyes  out- 
raged by  the  bizarre  sight,  he  set  forth  to  drive  the 
intruders  out  into  the  main  road. 

Head  lowered,  he  ran,  uttering  no  sound.  This 
seemed  to  him  an  emergency  which  called  for 
drastic  measures  rather  than  for  monitory  barking. 
For  all  he  knew,  these  twenty  fat,  woolly,  white 
things  might  be  fighters  who  would  attack  him  in 
a  body,  and  who  might  even  menace  the  safety  of 
his  gods;  and  the  glum  McGillicuddy  did  not  im- 
press him  at  all  favorably.  Hence  the  silent  charge 
at  the  foe — a  charge  launched  with  the  speed  and 
terrible  menace  of  a  thunderbolt. 

McGillicuddy  sprang  swiftly  to  the  front  of  his 
flock,  staff  upwhirled;  but  before  the  staff  could 
descend  on  the  furry  defender  of  The  Place,  a 
sweet  voice  called  imperiously  to  the  dog. 

The  Mistress  had  come  out  upon  the  veranda 
and,  had  seen  Lad  dash  to  the  attack. 

"Lad!"  she  cried.    "Lad!" 

The  great  dog  halted  midway  in  his  rush. 

"Down!"  called  the  Mistress.  "Leave  them 
alone!  Do  you  hear,  Lad?  Leave  them  alone! 
Come  back  here!" 

Lad  heard,  and  Lad  obeyed.    Lad  always  obeyed. 


THE  THROWBACK  159 

If  these  twenty  malodorous  strangers  and  their 
staff-brandishing  guide  were  friends  of  the  Mis- 
tress he  must  not  drive  them  away.  The  order 
"Leave  them  alone!"  was  one  that  could  not  be  dis- 
regarded. 

Trembling  with  anger,  yet  with  no  thought  of 
rebelling,  Lad  turned  and  trotted  back  to  the 
veranda.  He  thrust  his  cold  nose  into  the  Mistress' 
warm  little  hand  and  looked  up  eagerly  into  her 
face,  seeking  a  repeal  of  the  command  to  keep  away 
from  the  sheep  and  their  driver. 

But  the  Mistress  only  patted  his  silken  head  and 
whispered: 

"We  don't  like  it  any  more  than  you  do,  Laddie ; 
but  we  mustn't  let  anyone  know  we  don't.  Leave 
them  alone!" 

Past  the  veranda  filed  the  twenty  priceless  sheep, 
and  on  to  the  paddock. 

"I  suppose  they'll  carry  off  all  the  prizes  at  the 
fair,  won't  they?"  asked  the  Mistress  civilly,  as 
McGillicuddy  plodded  past  her  at  the  tail  of  the  pro- 
cession. 

"Aiblins,  aye,"  grunted  McGillicuddy,  with  the 
exquisite  courtesy  of  a  member  of  his  race  and 
class  who  feels  he  is  being  patronized.  "Aiblins, 
aye.  Aiblins,  na'.  Aiblins — ugh-uh." 

Having  thus  safeguarded  his  statement  against 
assault  from  any  side  at  all,  the  Scot  moved  on. 
Lad  strolled  down  toward  the  paddock  to  superin- 
tend the  task  of  locking  up  the  sheep.  The  Mis- 


160  LAD:    A  DOG 

tress  did  not  detain  him.  She  felt  calmly  certain  her 
order  of  "Leave  them  alone!"  had  rendered  the 
twenty  visitors  inviolate  from  him. 

Lad  walked  slowly  around  the  paddock,  his  gaze 
on  the  sheep.  These  were  the  first  sheep  he  had 
ever  seen.  Yet  his  ancestors,  for  a  thousand  years 
or  more,  had  herded  and  guarded  flocks  on  the 
moors. 

Atavism  is  mysteriously  powerful  in  dogs,  and  it 
takes  strange  forms.  A  collie,  too,  has  a  queer 
strain  of  wolf  in  him — not  only  in  body  but  in 
brain,  and  the  wolf  was  the  sheep's  official  mur- 
derer, as  far  back  as  the  days  when  a  humpbacked 
Greek  slave,  named  y£sop,  used  to  beguile  his  sleep- 
less nights  with  writing  fables. 

Round  and  round  the  paddock  prowled  Lad;  his 
eyes  alight  with  a  myriad  half-memories;  his  sensi- 
tive nostrils  quivering  at  the  scents  that  enveloped 
them. 

McGillicudy,  from  time  to  time,  eyed  the  dog 
obliquely,  and  with  a  scowl.  These  sheep  were  not 
the  pride  of  his  heart.  His  conscientious  heart 
possessed  no  pride — pride  being  one  of  the  seven 
deadly  sins,  and  the  sheep  not  being  his  own;  but 
the  flock  represented  his  livelihood — his  com- 
fortably overpaid  job  with  the  Wall  Street  Farmer. 
He  was  responsible  for  their  welfare. 

And  McGillicuddy  did  not  at  all  like  the  way  this 
beautiful  collie  eyed  the  prize  merinos,  nor  was  the 
Scot  satisfied  with  the  strength  of  the  corral.  Its 


THE  THROWBACK  161 

wire  fencing  was  rusty  and  sagging  from  long  dis- 
use, its  gate  hung  crookedly  and  had  a  crazy  hasp. 

A  sheep  is  one  of  the  least  intelligent  creatures 
on  earth.  Should  the  flock's  leader  decide  at  any 
time  during  the  night  to  press  his  heavy  bulk 
against  the  gate  or  against  some  of  the  rustier  wire 
strands,  there  would  presently  be  a  gap  through 
which  the  entire  twenty  could  amble  forth.  Once 
outside 

Again  McGillicuddy  glowered  dourly  at  Lad. 
The  collie  returned  the  look  with  interest;  a  well- 
bred  dog  being  as  skilled  in  reading  human  faces 
as  is  any  professional  dead  beat.  Lad  saw  the  dis- 
like in  McGillicuddy's  heavy-thatched  eyes ;  cordially 
he  yearned  to  prove  his  own  distaste  for  the  shep- 
herd, but  the  Mistress*  command  had  immuned 
this  sour  stranger. 

So  Lad  merely  turned  his  back  on  the  man,  sat 
down,  flattened  his  furry  ears  close  against  his 
head,  thrust  his  pointed  nose  skyward,  and  sniffed. 
McGillicuddy  was  too  much  an  animal  man  not  to 
read  the  insult  in  the  dog's  posture  and  action,  and 
the  shepherd's  fist  tightened  longingly  round  his 
staff. 

Half,  an  hour  later  the  Wall  Street  Farmer  him- 
self arrived  at  The  Place.  He  came  in  a  runabout. 
On  the  seat  beside  him  sat  his  pasty-faced,  four- 
year-old  son.  At  his  feet  was  something  which,  at 
first  glance,  might  have  been  either  a  quadruped  or 
a  rag  bag. 


162  LAD:    A  DOG 

The  Mistress  and  the  Master,  with  dutiful  hy- 
pocrisy, came  smilingly  out  on  the  veranda  to  wel- 
come the  guests.  Lad,  who  had  returned  from  the 
impromptu  sheep-fold,  stood  beside  them.  At  sight 
and  scent  of  this  new  batch  of  visitors  the  collie 
doubtless  felt  what  old-fashioned  novelists  used  to 
describe  AS  "mingled  emotions." 

There  was  a  child  in  the  car.  And  though  there 
had  been  few  children  in  Lad's  life,  yet  he  loved 
them,  loved  them  as  a  big-hearted  and  big-bodied 
dog  always  loves  the  helpless.  Wherefore,  at  sight 
of  the  child,  Lad  rejoiced. 

But  the  animal  crouching  at  the  Wall  Street 
Farmer's  feet  was  quite  a  different  form  of  guest. 
Lad  recognized  the  thing  as  a  dog — yet  no  such 
dog  as  ever  he  had  seen.  An  unwholesome-looking 
dog.  Even  as  the  little  boy  was  an  unwholesome- 
looking  child. 

"Well!"  sonorously  proclaimed  the  Wall  Street 
Farmer  as  he  scrambled  out  of  the  runabout  and 
bore  down  upon  his  hosts,  "here  I  am !  The  sheep 
got  here  all  safe?  Good!  I  knew  they  would. 
McGillicuddy's  a  genius;  nothing  he  can't  do  with 
sheep.  You  remember  Mortimer?"  lifting  the 
lanky  youngster  from  the  seat.  "He  teased  so  to 
come  along,  his  mother  said  I'd  better  bring  him. 
I  knew  you'd  be  glad.  Shake  hands  with  them, 
Morty,  darling." 

"I  wun't!"  snarled  Morty  darling,  hanging  back. 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  Lad.     The  collie  came 


THE  THROWBACK  163 

straight  up  to  the  child,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear, 
and  wrinkling  his  nose  so  delightedly  that  every 
white  front  tooth  showed.  Morty  flung  himself 
forward  to  greet  the  huge  dog,  but  the  Wall  Street 
Farmer,  with  a  shout  of  warning,  caught  the  boy 
in  his  arms  and  bravely  interposed  his  own  fat 
body  between  Mortimer  and  Lad. 

"What  does  the  beast  mean  by  snarling  at  my 
son?"  fiercely  demanded  the  Wall  Street  Farmer. 
"You  people  have  no  right  to  leave  such  a  savage 
dog  at  large." 

"He's  not  snarling,"  the  Mistress  indignantly  de- 
clared, "he's  smiling.  That's  Lad's  way.  Why, 
he'd  let  himself  be  cut  up  into  squares  sooner  than 
hurt  a  child." 

Still  doubtful,  the  Wall  Street  Farmer  cautiously 
set  down  his  son  on  the  veranda.  Morty  flung  him- 
self bodily  upon  Lad;  hauling  and  mauling  the 
stately  collie  this  way  and  that. 

Had  any  grown  person,  save  only  the  Mistress 
or  the  Master,  attempted  such  treatment,  the  curv- 
ing white  eyeteeth  would  have  buried  themselves 
very  promptly  in  the  offender. 

Indeed,  the  Master  now  gazed,  with  some  nerv- 
ousness, at  the  performance;  but  the  Mistress  was 
not  worried  as  to  her  adored  pet's  behavior ;  and  the 
Mistress,  as  ever,  was  right. 

For  Lad  endured  the  mauling — not  patiently,  but 
blissfully.  He  fairly  writhed  with  delight  at  the 
painful  tugging  of  hair  and  ears;  and  moistly  he 


164  LAD:    A  DOG 

strove  to  kiss  the  wizened  little  face  that  was  on  a 
level  with  his  own.  Morty  repaid  this  attention  by 
slapping  Lad  across  the  mouth.  Lad  only  wagged 
his  plumy  tail  the  more  ecstatically  and  snuggled 
closer  to  the  preposterous  baby. 

Meantime,  the  Wall  Street  Farmer,  in  clarion 
tones,  was  calling  attention  to  the  second  of  the  two 
treasures  he  had  brought  along. 

"Melisande!"  he  cried. 

At  the  summons,  the  fuzzy  monstrosity  in  the  car 
ceased  peering  snappishly  over  the  doortop  at  Lad, 
and  condescended  to  turn  toward  its  owner.  It 
looked  like  something  between  an  Old  English 
sheep-dog  and  a  dachshund;  straw-colored  fur  en- 
veloped the  scrawny  body;  a  miserable  apology  for 
a  bushy  tail  hung  limpy  between  crooked  hind  legs ; 
evil  little  eyes  peered  forth  from  beneath  a  scare- 
crow stubble  of  head  fringe;  it  was  not  a  pretty 
dog,  this  canine  the  Wall  Street  Farmer  had  just 
addressed  by  the  poetic  title  of  "Melisande." 

"What  in  blazes  is  he?"  asked  the  Master. 

"She  is  a  Prussian  sheep-dog,"  proudly  replied 
the  Wall  Street  Farmer.  "She  is  the  first  of  her 
breed  ever  imported  to  America.  Cost  me  a  clean 
$1100  to  buy  her  from  a  Chicago  man  who  brought 
her  over.  I'm  going  to  exhibit  her  at  the  Garden 
Show  next  winter.  What  do  you  think  of  her, 
old  man?" 

"I'd  hate  to  tell  you,"  said  the  Master,  "but  I'll 
gladly  tell  you  what  I  think  of  that  Chicago  man. 


THE  THROWBACK  165 

He's  the  original  genius  who  sold  all  the  land  be- 
tween New  York  and  Jersey  City  for  a  thousand 
dollars  an  acre  and  issued  the  series  of  ten-dollar 
season  admission  tickets  to  Central  Park." 

Being  the  Wall  Street  Farmer's  host  the  Master 
said  this  in  the  recesses  of  his  own  heart.  Aloud, 
he  blithered  some  complimentary  lie  and  watched 
the  visitor  lift  the  scraggy  nondescript  out  of 
the  car. 

The  moment  she  was  on  the  ground,  Melisande 
made  a  wild  dash  at  Lad.  Snarling,  she  snapped 
ferociously  at  his  throat.  Lad  merely  turned  his 
shaggy  shoulder  to  meet  the  onslaught.  And 
Melisande  found  herself  gripping  nothing  but  a 
mouthful  of  his  soft  hair.  He  made  no  move  to 
resent  the  attack.  And  the  Wall  Street  Farmer, 
shouting  unobeyed  mandates  to  his  pet,  dragged 
away  the  pugnacious  Melisande  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck. 

The  $1100  Prussian  sheep-dog  next  caught  a 
glimpse  of  one  of  the  half -grown  peacock  chicks — 
the  joy  of  the  Mistress'  summer — strutting  across 
the  lawn.  Melisande,  with  a  yap  of  glee,  rushed  off 
in  pursuit. 

The  chick  had  no  fear.  The  dogs  of  The  Place 
had  always  been  trained  to  give  the  fowls  a  wide 
berth;  so  the  pretty  little  peacock  fell  a  pitifully 
easy  prey  to  the  first  snap  of  Melisande's  jaws. 

Lad  growled,  deep  down  in  his  throat,  at  this 
gross  lawlessness.  The  Mistress  bit  her  lip  to  keep 


166  LAD:    A  DOG 

her  self-control  at  the  slaughter  of  her  pet.  The 
Master  hastily  said  something  that  was  lost  in  "the 
louder  volume  of  the  Wall  Street  Farmer's  bellow 
as  he  sought  to  call  back  his  $1100  treasure  from 
further  slaying. 

"Well,  well,  well  I"  the  guest  exclaimed  as  at  last 
he  returned  to  the  veranda,  dragging  Melisande 
along  in  his  wake.  "I'm  sorry  this  happened,  but 
you  must  overlook  it.  You  see,  Melisande  is  so 
high  spirited  she  is  hard  to  control.  That's  the  way 
with  thoroughbred  dogs.  Don't  you  find  it  so?" 

The  Master,  thus  appealed  to,  glanced  at  his  wife. 
She  was  momentarily  out  of  ear-shot,  having  gone 
to  pick  up  the  killed  peacock  and  stroke  its  rumpled 
plumage.  So  the  Master  allowed  himself  the  lux- 
ury of  plainer  speech  than  if  she  had  been  there  to 
be  grieved  over  the  breach  of  hospitality. 

"A  thoroughbred  dog,"  he  said  oracularly,  "is 
either  the  best  dog  on  earth,  or  else  he  is  the  worst. 
If  he  is  the  best  he  learns  to  mind,  and  to  behave 
himself  in  every  way  like  a  thoroughbred.  He 
learns  it  without  being  beaten  or  sworn  at.  If  he  is 
the  worst — then  it's  wisest  for  his  owner  to  hunt  up 
some  Easy  Mark  and  sell  the  cur  to  him  for  $1100. 
You'll  notice  I  said  his  'owner' — not  his  'master.' 
There's  all  the  difference  in  the  world  between 
those  two  terms.  Any  body,  with  price  to  buy  a 
dog,  can  be  an  'owner,'  but  all  the  cash  coined  won't 
make  a  man  a  dog's  'master' — unless  he's  that  sort 
of  man.  Think  it  over." 


THE  THROWBACK  167 

The  Wall  Street  Farmer  glared  apoplectically  at 
his  host,  who  was  already  sorry  that  the  sneer  at 
Lad  and  the  killing  of  his  wife's  pet  had  made  him 
speak  so  to  a  guest — even  to  a  self-invited  and  un- 
desired  guest.  Then  the  Wall  Street  Man,  with  a 
grunt,  put  a  leash  on  Melisande  and  gruffly  asked 
that  she  be  fastened  to  one  of  the  vacant  kennels. 

The  Mistress  came  back  to  the  group  as  the 
$1100  beast  was  led  away,  kennel  ward,  by  the 
gardener.  Recovering  her  self-possession,  the  Mis- 
tress said  to  her  guest: 

"I  never  heard  of  a  Prussian  sheep-dog  before. 
Is  she  trained  to  herd  your  sheep?" 

"No,"  replied  the  Wall  Street  Farmer,  his  rancor 
forgotten  in  the  prospect  of  exploiting  his  won- 
drous dog,  "not  yet.  In  fact,  she  hates  the  sheep. 
She's  young,  so  we  haven't  tried  to  train  her  for 
shepherding.  Two  or  three  times  we  have  taken 
her  into  the  pasture — always  on  leash — but  she 
flies  at  the  sheep  and  goes  almost  crazy  with  anger. 
McGillicuddy  says  it's  bad  for  the  sheep  to  be  scared 
by  her.  So  we  keep  her  away  from  them.  But  by 
next  season " 

He  got  no  further.  'A  sound  of  lamentation — 
prolonged  and  leather-lunged  lamentation — smote 
upon  the  air. 

"Morty!"  ejaculated  the  visitor  in  panic.  "It's 
Morty!  Quick!" 

Following  the  easily  traceable  direction  of  the 
squalling,  he  ran  up  the  veranda  steps  and  into  the 


168  LAD:    A  DOG 

house — closely  followed  by  the  Mistress  and  the 
Master. 

The  engaging  Mortimer  was  of  the  stuff  whereof 
explorers  are  made.  No  pent-up  Utica — nor  ve- 
randa— contracted  his  powers.  Bored  by  the  stupid 
talk  of  grown  folk,  wearying  of  Lad's  friendly  ad- 
vances, he  had  slipped  through  the  open  house  door 
into  the  living-room. 

There,  for  the  day  was  cool,  a  jolly  wood  fire 
blazed  on  the  hearth.  In  front  of  the  fireplace  was 
an  enormous  and  cavernous  couch.  In  the  precise 
center  of  the  couch  was  curled  something  that 
looked  like  a  ball  of  the  grayish  fluff  a  maid  sweeps 
under  the  bed. 

As  Mortimer  came  into  the  room  the  infatuated 
Lad  at  his  heels,  the  fluffy  ball  lazily  uncurled  and 
stretched — thereby  revealing  itself  as  no  ball,  but  a 
super  furry  gray  kitten — the  Mistress'  tempera- 
mental new  Persian  kitten  rejoicing  in  the  dreamily 
Oriental  name  of  Tipperary. 

With  a  squeal  of  glad  discovery,  Mortimer 
grabbed  Tipperary  with  both  hands,  essaying  to 
pull  her  fox-brush  tail.  Now,  no  sane  person  needs 
to  be  told  the  basic  difference  between  the  heart  of 
a  cat  and  the  heart  of  a  dog.  Nor  will  any  student 
of  Persian  kittens  be  surprised  to  hear  that  Tip- 
perary 's  reception  of  the  ruffianly  baby's  advances 
was  totally  different  from  Lad's. 

A  lightning  stroke  of  one  of  her  shapeless  fore- 
paws,  and  Tipperary  was  free.  Morty  stood  blink- 


THE  THROWBACK  169 

Ing  in  amaze  at  four  geometrically  regular  red 
marks  on  the  back  of  his  own  pudgy  hand.  Tip- 
perary  had  not  done  her  persecutor  the  honor  to 
run  away.  She  merely  moved  to  the  far  end  of 
the  couch  and  lay  down  there  to  renew  her  nap. 

A  mad  fury  fired  the  brain  of  Mortimer ;  a  fury 
goaded  by  the  pain  of  his  scratches.  Screaming  in 
rage  he  seized  the  cat  by  the  nape  of  the  neck — to 
be  safe  from  teeth  and  whizzing  claws — and 
stamped  across  toward  the  high-burning  fire  with 
her.  His  arm  was  drawn  back  to  fling  the  squirm- 
ing and  offending  kitten  into  the  scarlet  heart  of 
the  flames.  And  then  Lad  intervened. 

Now  Lad  was  not  in  the  very  least  interested  in 
Tipperary;  treating  the  temperamental  Persian 
always  with  marked  coldness.  It  is  even  doubtful 
if  he  realized  Morty's  intent. 

But  one  thing  he  did  realize — that  a  silly  baby 
was  toddling  straight  toward  the  fire.  As  many 
another  wise  dog  has  gone,  before  and  since,  Lad 
quietly  stepped  between  Morty  and  the  hearth.  He 
stood,  broadside  to  the  fire  and  to  the  child — 
a  shaggy  wall  between  the  peril  and  the  baby. 

But  so  quickly  had  anger  carried  Mortimer  to- 
ward the  hearth  that  the  dog  had  not  been  able 
to  block  his  progress  until  only  a  bare  eighteen 
inches  separated  the  youngster  from  the  blaze. 

Thus  Lad  found  the  heat  from  the  burning  logs 
all  but  intolerable.  It  bit  through  his  thick  coat  and 


170  LAD:    A  DOG 

into  the  tender  flesh  beneath.  Like  a  rock  he  stood 
there. 

Mortimer,  his  gentle  plan  of  kitten  killing  foiled, 
redoubled  his  screeches.  Lad's  back  was  higher 
than  the  child's  eyes.  Yet  Morty  sought  to  hurl 
the  kitten  over  this  stolid  barrier  into  the  fire. 

Tipperary  fell  short;  landing  on  the  dog's 
shoulders,  digging  her  needle  claws  viciously 
therein,  and  thence  leaping  to  the  floor,  from  which 
she  sprang  to  the  top  of  the  bookshelves,  spitting 
back  blasphemously  at  her  tormentor. 

Morty's  interest  in  the  fire  had  been  purely  as  a 
piece  of  immolation  for  the  cat,  but  finding  his 
path  to  it  barred,  he  straightway  resolved  to  go 
thither  himself. 

He  started  to  move  round  to  it,  in  front  of  Lad. 
The  dog  took  a  forward  step  that  again  barred  the 
way.  Morty  went  insane  with  wrath  at  this  new 
interference  with  his  sweet  plans.  His  howls 
swelled  to  a  sustained  roar,  that  reached  the  ears 
of  the  grown-ups  on  the  lawn. 

He  flew  at  Lad,  beating  the  dog  with  all  the 
puny  force  of  his  fists,  sinking  his  milk  teeth  into 
the  collie's  back,  wrenching  and  tearing  at  the  thicK 
fur,  stamping  with  his  booted  heels  upon  the  ab- 
surdly tiny  white  forepaws,  kicking  the  short  ribs 
and  the  tender  stomach. 

Never  for  an  instant  did  the  child  slacken  his 
howls  as  he  punished  the  dog  that  was  saving  him 
from  death.  Rather,  he  increased  their  volume 


THE  THROWBACK  171 

from  moment  to  moment.  Lad  did  not  stir.  The 
kicking  and  beating  and  gouging  and  hair-pulling 
were  not  pleasant,  but  they  were  wholly  bearable. 
The  heat  was  not.  The  smell  of  singed  hair  began 
to  fill  the  room,  but  Lad  stood  firm. 

And  then  in  rushed  the  relief  expedition,  the 
Wall  Street  Farmer  at  its  head. 

At  once  concluding  that  Lad  had  bitten  his  son's 
bleeding  hand,  the  irate  father  swung  aloft  a  chair 
and  strode  to  the  rescue. 

Lad  saw  him  coming. 

With  the  lightning  swiftness  of  his  kind  he 
whirled  to  one  side  as  the  mass  of  wood  descended. 
The  chair  missed  him  by  a  fraction  of  an  inch 
and  splintered  into  pieces.  It  was  a  Chippendale, 
and  had  belonged  to  the  Mistress*  great  grand- 
parents. 

For  the  first  time  in  all  his  blameless  life  Lad 
broke  the  sacred  Guest  Law  by  growling  at  a 
vouched-for  visitor.  But  surely  this  fat  bellower 
was  no  guest!  Lad  looked  at  his  gods  for  infor- 
mation. 

"Down,  Lad!"  said  the  Master  very  gently,  his 
voice  not  quite  steady. 

Lad,  perplexed  but  obedient,  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"The  brute  tried  to  kill  my  boy!"  stormed  the 
Wall  Street  Farmer  right  dramatically  as  he  caught 
the  howling  Morty  up  in  his  arms  to  study  the  ex- 
tent of  the  wound. 

"He's  my  guest!     He's  my  guest!     HE'S  MY 


178  LAD:    A  DOG 

GUEST!'*  the  Master  was  saying  over  and  over 
to  himself.  "Lord,  help  me  to  keep  on  remember- 
ing he's  my  GUEST!" 

The  Mistress  came  forward. 

"Lad  would  sooner  die  than  hurt  a  child,"  she 
declared,  trying  not  to  think  of  the  wrecked  heir- 
loom chair.  "He  loves  children.  Here,  let  me  see 
Morty's  hand.  Why,  those  are  claw-marks!  Cat 
scratches !" 

"Ve  nassy  cat  scwatched  me!"  bawled  Morty. 
"Kill  her,  daddy !  I  twied  to.  I  twied  to  f  row  her 
in  ve  fire.  But  ve  mizz'ble  dog  wouldn't  let  me! 
Kill  her,  daddy !  Kill  ve  dog  too !" 

The  Master's  mouth  flew  wide  open. 

"Won't  you  go  down  to  the  paddock,  dear," 
hastily  interposed  the  Mistress,  "and  see  if  the  sheep 
are  all  right?  Take  Lad  along  with  you." 

Lad,  alone  of  all  The  Place's  dogs,  had  the  run 
of  the  house,  night  and  day,  of  the  sacred  dining- 
room.  During  the  rest  of  that  day  he  did  not 
avail  himself  of  his  high  privilege.  He  kept  out 
of  the  way — perplexed,  woe-begone,  his  burns  still 
paining  him  despite  the  Master's  ministrations. 

After  talking  long  and  loudly  all  evening  of  his 
sheep's  peerless  quality  and  of  their  certain  victory 
over  all  comers  in  the  fair  the  Wall  Street  Farmer 
consented  at  last  to  go  to  bed.  And  silence  set- 
tled over  The  Place. 

In  the  black  hour  before  dawn,  that  same  silence 
was  split  in  a  score  of  places — split  into  a  most 


THE  THROWBACK  173 

horrible  cacophony  of  sound  that  sent  sleep  scam- 
pering to  the  winds. 

It  was  the  mingling  of  yells  and  bleats  and  barks 
and  the  scurry  of  many  feet.  It  burst  out  all  at 
once  in  full  force,  lasting  for  some  seconds  with 
increasing  clangor;  then  died  to  stillness. 

By  that  time  every  human  on  The  Place  was  out 
of  bed.  In  more  or  less  rudimentary  attire  the 
house's  inhabitants  trooped  down  into  the  lower 
hall.  There  the  Wall  Street  Farmer  was  raving 
noisily  and  was  yanking  at  a  door  bolt  whose  secret 
he  could  not  fathom  . 

"It's  my  sheep!"  he  shouted.  "That  accursed 
dog  of  yours  has  gotten  at  them.  He's  slaughter- 
ing \hern.  I  heard  the  poor  things  bleating  and  I 

heard  him  snarling  among  them.  They  cost 
,__ » 

"If  you're  speaking  of  Lad,"  blazed  the  Master, 
HI  » » 

"Here  are  the  flashlights,"  interposed  the  Mis- 
tress. "Let  me  open  that  door  for  you.  I  under- 
stand the  bolt." 

Out  into  the  dark  they  went,  all  but  colliding 
with  McGillicuddy.  The  Scot,  awakened  like  the 
rest,  had  gone  to  the  paddock.  He  had  now  come 
back  to  report  the  paddock  empty  and  all  the  sheep 
gone. 

"It's  the  collie  tike!"  sputtered  McGillicuddy. 
"I'll  tak'  oath  to  it.  I  ken  it's  him.  I  suspeecioned 


174  LAD:    A  DOG 

him  a'  long,  from  how  he  garred  at  oor  sheep  the 
day.  He " 

"I  said  so !"  roared  the  Wall  Street  Farmer.  "The 
murderous  brute!  First,  he  tries  to  kill  Morty. 
And  now  he  slaughters  my  sheep.  You " 

The  Master  started  to  speak.  But  a  white  little 
hand,  in  the  darkness,  was  laid  gently  across  his 
mouth. 

"You  told  me  he  always  slept  under  the  piano 
in  your  music  room !"  accused  the  guest  as  the  four 
made  their  way  paddock- ward,  lighting  a  path  with 
the  electric  flashlights.  "Well,  I  looked  there  just 
now.  He  isn't  under  the  piano.  He He " 

"Lad!"  called  the  Master;  then  at  the  top  of  his 
lungs.  "Lad!" 

A  distant  growl,  a  snarl,  a  yelp,  a  scramble — 
and  presently  Lad  appeared  in  the  farthest  radius  of 
the  flashlight  flare. 

For  only  a  moment  he  stood  there.  Then  he 
wheeled  about  and  vanished  in  the  dark.  Nor  had 
the  Master  the  voice  to  call  him  back.  The  mo- 
mentary glimpse  of  the  great  collie,  in  the  merciless 
gleam  of  the  lights,  had  stricken  the  whole  party 
fnto  an  instant's  speechlessness. 

Vividly  distinct  against  the  darkness  they  had 
seen  Lad.  His  well-groomed  coat  was  rumpled. 
His  eyes  were  fire-balls.  And — his  jaws  were  red 
with  blood.  Then  he  had  vanished. 

A  groan  from  the  Master — a  groan  of  heartbreak 


THE  THROWBACK  175 

—was  the  first  sound  from  the  four.  The  dog  he 
loved  was  a  killer. 

"It  isn't  true!  It  isn't  true!"  stoutly  declared 
the  Mistress. 

The  Wall  Street  Farmer  and  McGullicuddy  had 
already  broken  into  a  run.  The  shepherd  had  found 
the  tracks  of  many  little  hoofs  on  the  dewy  ground. 
And  he  was  following  the  trail.  The  guest,  swear- 
ing and  panting,  was  behind  him.  The  Mistress  and 
the  Master  brought  up  the  rear. 

At  every  step  they  peered  fearfully  around  them 
for  what  they  dreaded  to  see — the  mangled  body  of 
some  slain  sheep.  But  they  saw  none.  And  they 
followed  the  trail. 

In  a  quarter  mile  they  came  to  its  end. 

All  four  flashlights  played  simultaneously  upon 
a  tiny  hillock  that  rose  from  the  meadow  at  the 
forest  edge.  The  hillock  was  usually  green.  Now 
it  was  white. 

Around  its  short  slopes  was  huddled  a  flock  of 
sheep,  as  close-ringed  as  though  by  a  fence.  At 
the  hillock's  summit  sat  Lad.  He  was  sitting  there 
in  a  queer  attitude,  one  .of  his  snowy  forepaws  pin- 
ning something  to  the  ground — something  that 
could  not  be  clearly  distinguished  through  the 
huddle,  but  which,  evidently,  was  no  sheep. 

The  Wall  Street  Farmer  broke  the  tense  silence 
with  a  gobbled  exclamation. 

"Whisht!"  half  reverently  interrupted  the  shep- 
herd, who  had  been  circling  the  hillock  on  census 


176  LAD:    A  DOG 

duty.  "There's  na  a  sheep  gone,  nor — so  f ar's  I  can 
see — a  sheep  hurted.  The  fu'  twenty  is  there." 

The  Master's  flashlight  found  a  gap  through 
which  its  rays  could  reach  the  hillock  crest.  The 
light  revealed,  under  Lad's  gently  pinioning  fore- 
paw,  the  crouching  and  badly  scared  Melisande — 
the  $1100  Prussian  sheep  dog. 

McGullicuddy,  with  a  grunt,  was  off  on  another 
and  longer  tour  of  inspection.  Presently  he  came 
back.  He  was  breathing  hard. 

Even  before  McGillicuddy  made  his  report  the 
Master  had  guessed  at  the  main  points  of  the  mys- 
tery's solution. 

Melisande,  weary  of  captivity,  had  gnawed 
through  her  leash.  Seeking  sport,  she  had  gone  to 
the  paddock.  There  she  had  easily  worried  loose 
the  crazy  gate  latch.  Just  as  she  was  wriggling 
through,  Lad  appeared  from  the  veranda. 

He  had  tried  to  drive  back  the  would-be  killer 
from  her  prey.  Lad  was  a  veteran  of  several  bat- 
tles. But,  apart  from  her  sex,  Melisande  was  no 
opponent  for  him.  And  he  had  treated  her  accord- 
ingly. Melisande  had  snapped  at  him,  cutting  him 
deeply  in  the  under  jaw.  During  the  scrimmage  the 
panic-urged  sheep  had  bolted  out  of  the  paddock 
and  had  scattered. 

Remember,  please,  that  Lad,  ten  hours  earlier, 
had  never  in  his  life  seen  a  sheep.  But  remember, 
too,  that  a  million  of  his  ancestors  had  won  their 
right  to  a  livelihood  by  their  almost  supernatural 


THE  THROWBACK  177 

skill  at  herding  flocks.  Let  this  explain  what 
actually  happened — the  throwback  of  a  great  collie's 
instinct. 

Driving  the  scared  and  subdued  Melisande  before 
him— and  ever  hampered  by  her  unwelcome  pres- 
ence— Lad  proceeded  to  round  up  the  scattered 
sheep.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  the  process  when 
the  Master  called  him.  Merely  galloping  back  for? 
an  instant,  and  finding  the  summons  was  not  re- 
peated, he  returned  to  his  atavistic  task. 

In  less  than  five  minutes  the  twenty  scampering 
runaways  were  "ringed"  on  the  hillock.  And,  still 
keeping  the  Prussian  sheep  dog  out  of  mischief,  Lad 
established  himself  in  the  ring's  center. 

Further  than  that,  and  the  keeping  of  the  ring 
intact,  his  primal  instincts  did  not  serve  him.  Hav- 
ing rounded  up  his  flock  Lad  had  not  the  remotest 
idea  what  to  do  with  them.  So  he  merely  held 
them  there  until  the  noisily  gabbling  humans 
should  decide  to  take  the  matter  out  of  his  care. 

McGillicuddy  examined  every  sheep  separately 
and  found  not  a  scratch  or  a  stain  on  any  of  them. 
Then  he  told  in  effect  what  has  here  been  set  down 
as  to  Lad's  exploit. 

As  he  finished  his  recital  McGillicuddy  looked 
shamefacedly  around  him  as  though  gathering 
courage  for  an  irksome  task.  !A3  sickly  yellow 
dawn  was  crawling  over  the  eastern  mountains, 
throwing  a  ghostly  glow  on  the  shepherd's  dour 
and  craggy  visage.  Drawing  a  long  breath  of  re- 


178  LAD:    A  DOG 

solve  he  advanced  upon  Lad.  Dropping  on  one 
knee,  his  eyes  on  a  level  with  the  unconcernedly 
observant  collie's,  McGillicuddy  intoned: 

"Laddie,  ye're  a  braw,  braw  dog.  Ou,  a  canny 
dog!  A  sonsie  dog,  Laddie!  I  hae  na  met  yer 
match  this  side  o'  Kirkcaldy  Brae.  Gin  ye'll  tak' 
an  auld  fule's  apology  for  wrangin'  ye,  an*  an  auld 
fule's  hand  in  gude  fellowship,  'twill  pleasure  me, 
Laddie.  Winna  ye  let  bygones  be  bygones,  an' 
shake?" 

Yes,  the  speech  was  ridiculous,  but  no  one  felt 
like  laughing,  not  even  the  Wall  Street  Farmer. 
The  shepherd  was  gravely  sincere  and  he  knew  that 
Lad  would  understand  his  burring  words. 

And  Lad  did  understand.  Solemnly  he  sat  up. 
Solemnly  he  laid  one  white  forepaw  in  the  gnarled 
palm  the  kneeling  shepherd  outstretched  to  him. 
His  eyes  glinted  in  wise  friendliness  as  they  met 
the  admiring  gaze  of  the  old  man.  Two  born 
shepherds  were  face  to  face.  Deep  was  calling  unto 
deep. 

Presently  McGillicuddy  broke  the  spell  by  rising 
abruptly  to  his  feet.  Gruffly  he  turned  to  the 
Master. 

"There's  na  wit,  sir,"  he  growled,  "in  speirin' 
will  ye  sell  him.  But — but  I  compliment  ye  on  him, 
nanetheless." 

"That's  right;  McGillicuddy's  right!"  boomed 
the  Wall  Street  Farmer,  catching  but  part  of  his 
shepherd's  mumbled  words.  "Good  idea !  He  is  a 


THE  THROWBACK  179 

fine  dog.  I  see  that  now.  I  was  prejudiced.  I 
freely  admit  it.  A  remarkable  dog.  What'll  you 
take  for  him?  Or — better  yet,  how  would  you  like 
to  swap,  even,  for  Melisande?" 

The  Master's  mouth  again  flew  ajar,  and  many 
sizzling  words  jostled  each  other  in  his  throat. 
Before  any  of  these  could  shame  his  hospitality  by 
escaping,  the  Mistress  hurriedly  interposed: 

"Dear,  we  left  all  the  house  doors  wide  open. 
Would  you  mind  hurrying  back  ahead  of  us  and 
seeing  that  everything  is  safe  ?  And — will  you  take 
Lad  with  you?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  GOLD  HAT 

THE  Place  was  in  the  North  Jersey  hinterland, 
backed  by  miles  of  hill  and  forest,  facing 
the  lake  that  divided  it  from  the  village  and 
the  railroad  and  the  other  new-made  smears  which 
had  been  daubed  upon  Mother  Nature's  smiling  face 
in  the  holy  name  of  Civilization.    The  lonely  situa- 
tion of  The  Place  made  Lad's  self-appointed  guard- 
ianship of  its  acres  no  sinecure  at  all.     The  dread 
of  his  name  spread  far — carried  by  hobo  and  by 
less  harmless  intruder. 

Ten  miles  to  northward  of  The  Place,  among  the 
mountains  of  this  same  North  Jersey  hinterland,  a 
man  named  Glure  had  bought  a  rambling  old  wil- 
derness farm.  By  dint  of  much  money,  more  zeal 
and  most  dearth  of  taste,  he  had  caused  the  wilder- 
ness to  blossom  like  the  Fifth  Proposition  of  Euclid. 
He  had  turned  bosky  wildwood  into  chaste  picnic- 
grove  plaisaunces,  lush  meadows  into  sunken  gar- 
dens, a  roomy  colonial  farmstead  into  something 
between  a  feudal  castle  and  a  roadhouse.  And, 
looking  on  his  work,  he  had  seen  that  it  was  good 

180 


THE  GOLD  HAT  181 

This  Beautifier  of  the  Wilderness  was  a  financial 
giantlet,  who  had  lately  chosen  to  amuse  himself, 
after  work-hours,  by  what  he  called  "farming." 
Hence  the  purchase  and  renovation  of  the  five  hun- 
dred-acre tract,  the  building  of  model  farms,  the 
acquisition  of  priceless  livestock,  and  the  hiring  of 
a  battalion  of  skilled  employees.  Hence,  too,  his 
dearly  loved  and  self-given  title  of  "Wall  Street 
Farmer."  His  name,  I  repeat,  was  Glure. 

Having  established  himself  in  the  region,  the 
Wall  Street  Farmer  undertook  most  earnestly  to 
reproduce  the  story-book  glories  of  the  life  sup- 
posedly led  by  mid- Victorian  country  gentlemen. 
Not  only  in  respect  to  keeping  open-house  and  in 
alternately  patronizing  and  bullying  the  peasantry, 
but  in  filling  his  gun-room  shelves  with  cups  and 
other  trophies  won  by  his  livestock. 

To  his  "open  house"  few  of  the  neighboring  fam- 
ilies came.  The  local  peasantry — Jersey  mountain- 
eers of  Revolutionary  stock,  who  had  not  the  faint- 
est idea  they  were  "peasantry"  and  who,  indeed,  had 
never  heard  of  the  word — alternately  grinned  and 
swore  at  the  Wall  Street  Farmer's  treatment  of 
them,  and  mulcted  him  of  huge  sums  for  small 
services.  But  Glure's  keenest  disappointment — a 
disappointment  that  crept  gradually  up  toward  the 
monomania  point — was  the  annoyingly  continual 
emptiness  of  his  trophy-shelves. 

When,  for  instance,  he  sent  to  the  Paterson  Live- 
stock Show  a  score  of  his  pricelessly  imported  me- 


182  LAD:    A  DOG 

rino  sheep,  under  his  more  pricelessly  imported 
Scotch  shepherd,  Mr.  McGillicuddy — the  sheep  came 
ambling  back  to  Glure  Towers  Farm  bearing  no 
worthier  guerdon  than  a  single  third-prize  yellow 
silk  rosette  and  a  "Commended"  ribbon.  First  and 
second  prizes,  as  well  as  the  challenge  cup  had  gone 
to  flocks  owned  by  vastly  inferior  folk — small  farm- 
ers who  had  no  money  wherewith  to  import  the  pick 
of  the  Scottish  moors — farmers  who  had  bred  and 
developed  their  own  sheep,  with  no  better  aid  than 
personal  care  and  personal  judgment. 

At  the  Hohokus  Fair,  too,  the  Country  Gentle- 
man's imported  Holstein  bull,  Tenebris,  had  had  to 
content  himself  with  a  measly  red  rosette  in  token 
of  second  prize,  while  the  silver  cup  went  to  a  bull 
owned  by  an  elderly  North  Jerseyman  of  low  man- 
ners, who  had  bred  his  own  entry  and  had  bred 
the  latter's  ancestors  for  forty  years  back. 

It  was  discouraging,  it  was  mystifying.  There 
actually  seemed  to  be  a  vulgar  conspiracy  among 
the  down-at-heel  rural  judges — a  conspiracy  to 
boost  second-rate  stock  and  to  turn  a  blind  eye 
to  the  virtues  of  overpriced  transatlantic  importa- 
tions. 

It  was  the  same  in  the  poultry  shows  and  in  hog 
exhibits.  It  was  the  same  at  the  County  Fair  horse- 
trots.  At  one  of  these  trots  the  Wall  Street  Farmer, 
in  person,  drove  his  $9000  English  colt.  And  a 
rangy  Hackensack  gelding  won  all  three  heats.  In 
none  of  the  three  did  Glure's  colt  get  within  hailing 


THE  GOLD  HAT  183 

distance  of  the  wire  before  at  least  two  other  trotters 
had  clattered  under  it. 

(Glure's  English  head-groom  was  called  on  the 
carpet  to  explain  why  a  colt  that  could  do  a  neat 
2.13  in  training  was  beaten  out  in  a  2.17  trot  The 
groom  lost  his  temper  and  his  place.  For  he 
grunted,  in  reply,  "The  colt  was  all  there.  It  was 
the  driving  did  it.") 

The  gun-room's  glassed  shelves  in  time  were  gay 
with  ribbon.  But  only  two  of  the  three  primary 
colors  were  represented  there — blue  being  conspicu- 
ously absent.  As  for  cups — the  burglar  who  should 
break  into  Glure  Towers  in  search  of  such  booty 
would  find  himself  the  worse  off  by  a  wageless 
night' s  work. 

Then  it  was  that  the  Wall  Street  Farmer  had  his 
Inspiration.  Which  brings  us  by  easy  degrees  to 
the  Hampton  Dog  Show. 

Even  as  the  Fiery  Cross  among  the  Highland 
crags  once  flashed  signal  of  War,  so,  when  the 
World  War  swirl  sucked  nation  after  nation  into  its 
eddy,  the  Red  Cross  flamed  from  one  end  of 
America  to  the  other,  as  the  common  rallying  point 
for  those  who,  for  a  time,  must  do  their  fighting 
on  the  hither  side  of  the  gray  seas.  The  country 
bristled  with  a  thousand  money-getting  functions 
of  a  thousand  different  kinds ;  with  one  objective — 
the  Red  Cross. 

So  it  happened  at  last  that  North  Jersey  was 
posted,  on  state  road  and  byway,  with  flaring  pla- 


184  LAD:    A  DOG 

cards  announcing  a  Mammoth  Outdoor  Specialty 
Dog  show,  to  be  held  under  the  auspices  of  the 
Hampton  Branch  of  the  American  National  Red 
Cross,  on  Labor  Day. 

Mr.  Hamilcar  Q.  Glure,  the  announcement  con- 
tinued, had  kindly  donated  the  use  of  his  beautiful 
grounds  for  the  Event,  and  had  subscribed  three 
hundred  dollars  towards  its  running  expenses  and 
prizes. 

Not  only  were  the  usual  dog  classes  to  be  judged, 
but  an  added  interest  was  to  be  supplied  by  the 
awarding  of  no  less  than  fifteen  Specialty 
Trophies. 

Mr.  Glure,  having  offered  his  grounds  and  the 
initial  three  hundred  dollars,  graciously  turned  over 
the  details  of  the  Show  to  a  committee,  whose  duty 
it  was  to  suggest  popular  Specialties  and  to  solicit 
money  for  the  cups. 

Thus,  one  morning,  an  official  letter  was  received 
at  The  Place,  asking  the  Master  to  enter  all  his 
available  dogs  for  the  Show — at  one  dollar  apiece 
for  each  class — and  to  contribute,  if  he  should  so  de- 
sire, the  sum  of  fifteen  dollars,  besides,  for  the  pur- 
chase of  a  Specialty  Cup. 

The  Mistress  was  far  more  excited  over  the  com- 
ing event  than  was  the  Master.  And  it  was  she  who 
suggested  the  nature  of  the  Specialty  for  which  the 
fifteen-dollar  cup  should  be  offered. 

The  next  outgoing  mail  bore  the  Master's  check 


THE  GOLD  HAT  185 

for  a  cup.  "To  be  awarded  to  the  oldest  and  best- 
cared-for  dog,  of  any  breed,  in  the  Show." 

It  was  like  the  Mistress  to  think  of  that,  and  to 
reward  the  dog-owner  whose  pet's  old  age  had  been 
made  happiest.  Hers  was  destined  to  be  the  most 
popular  Specialty  of  the  entire  Show. 

The  Master,  at  first,  was  disposed  to  refuse  the 
invitation  to  take  any  of  his  collies  to  Hampton. 
The  dogs  were,  for  the  most  part,  out  of  coat.  The 
weather  was  warm.  At  these  amateur  shows — as 
at  too  many  professional  exhibits — there  was  always 
danger  of  some  sick  dog  spreading  epidemic.  More- 
over, the  living-room  trophy-shelf  at  The  Place  was 
already  comfortably  filled  with  cups ;  won  at  similar 
contests.  Then,  too,  the  Master  had  somehow 
acquired  a  most  causeless  and  cordial  dislike  for 
the  Wall  Street  Farmer. 

"I  believe  I'll  send  an  extra  ten  dollars,"  he  told 
the  Mistress,  "and  save  the  dogs  a  day  of  torment. 
What  do  you  think?" 

By  way  of  answer,  the  Mistress  sat  down  on  the 
floor  where  Lad  was  sprawled,  asleep.  She  ran  her 
fingers  through  his  forest  .of  ruff.  The  great  dog's 
brush  pounded  drowsily  against  the  floor  at  the 
loved  touch;  and  he  raised  his  head  for  further 
caress. 

"Laddie's  winter  coat  is  coming  in  beautifully," 
she  said  at  last.  "I  don't  suppose  there'll  be  another 
dog  there  with  such  a  coat.  Besides,  it's  to  be  out- 
doors, you  see.  So  he  won't  catch  any  sickness. 


186  LAD:    A  DOG 

If  it  were  a  four-day  show — if  it  were  anything 
longer  than  a  one-day  show — he  shouldn't  go  a  step. 
But,  you  see,  I'd  be  right  there  with  him  all  the 
time.  And  I'd  take  him  into  the  ring  myself,  as 
I  did  at  Madison  Square  Garden.  And  he  won't  be 
unhappy  or  lonely  or — or  anything.  And  I  always 
love  to  have  people  see  how  splendid  he  is.  And 
those  Specialty  Trophies  are  pretty,  sometimes.  So 
— so  we'll  do  just  whatever  you  say  about  it." 

Which,  naturally,  settled  the  matter,  once  and 
for  all. 

When  a  printed  copy  of  the  Specialty  Lists  ar- 
rived, a  week  later,  the  Mistress  and  the  Master 
scanned  eagerly  its  pages. 

There  were  cups  offered  for  the  best  tri-color 
collie,  for  the  best  mother-and-litter,  for  the  collie 
with  the  finest  under-and-outer  coat,  for  the  best 
collie  exhibited  by  a  woman,  for  the  collie  whose 
get  had  won  most  prizes  in  other  shows.  At  the 
very  bottom  of  the  section,  and  in  type  six  points 
larger  than  any  other  announcement  on  the  whole 
schedule,  were  the  words : 

"Presented  by  the  Hon.  Hugh  Lester  Maury  of 
New  York  City—i8-KARAT  GOLD  SPE- 
CIALTY CUP,  FOR  COLLIES  (conditions  an- 
nounced later)." 

"A  gold  cup!"  sighed  the  Mistress,  yielding  to 
Delusions  of  Grandeur,  "A  gold  cup!  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing,  at  a  dog  show.  And — and 
won't  it  look  perfectly  gorgeous  in  the  very  center 


THE  GOLD  HAT  187 

of  our  Trophy  Shelf,  there — with  the  other  cups 

radiating  from  it  on  each  side?    And " 

"Hold  on!"  laughed  the  Master,  trying  to  mask 
his  own  thrill,  man-fashion,  by  wetblanketing  his 
wife's  enthusiasm.  "Hold  on!  We  haven't  got  it, 
yet.  I'll  enter  Lad  for  it,  of  course.  But  so  will 
every  other  collie-owner  who  reads  that.  Besides, 
even  if  Lad  should  win  it,  we'd  have  to  buy  a 
microscope  to  see  the  thing.  It  will  probably  be 
about  half  the  size  of  a  thimble.  Gold  cups  cost 
gold  money,  you  know.  And  I  don't  suppose  this 
'Hon.  Hugh  Lester  Maury  of  New  York  City'  is 
squandering  more  than  ten  or  fifteen  dollars  at 
most  on  a  country  dog  show.  Even  for  the  Red 
Cross.  I  suppose  he's  some  Wall  Street  chum  that 
Glure  has  wheedled  into  giving  a  Specialty.  He's 
a  novelty  to  me.  I  never  heard  of  him  before.  Did 
you?" 

"No,"  admitted  the  Mistress.  "But  I  feel  I'm 
beginning  to  love  him.  Oh.  Laddie,"  she  confided 
to  the  dog,  "I'm  going  to  give  you  a  bath  in  naphtha 
soap  every  day  till  then;  and  brush  you,  two  hours 
every  morning ;  and  feed  you  on  liver  and " 

'  'Conditions  announced  later,'  "  quoted  the  Mas- 
ter, studying  the  big-type  offer  once  more.  "I  won- 
der what  that  means.  Of  course,  in  a  Specialty 
Show,  anything  goes.  But " 

"I  don't  care  what  the  conditions  are,"  inter- 
rupted the  Mistress,  refusing  to  be  disheartened. 
"Lad  can  come  up  to  them.  Why,  there  isn't  a 


188  LAD:    A  DOG 

greater  dog  in  America  than  Lad.  And  you 
know  it." 

"I  know  it,"  assented  the  pessimistic  Master. 
"But  will  the  Judge?  You  might  tell  him  so." 

"Lad    will    tell    him,"    promised    the    Mistress. 

"Don't  worry." 

*  #  *  *  *  * 

On  Labor  Day  morning  a  thousand  cars,  from  a 
radius  of  fifty  miles,  were  converging  upon  the 
much-advertised  village  of  Hampton;  whence,  by 
climbing  a  tortuous  first-speed  hill,  they  presently 
chugged  into  the  still-more-advertised  estate  of 
Hamilcar  Q.  Glure,  Wall  Street  Farmer. 

There,  the  sylvan  stillness  was  shattered  by  barks 
in  every  key,  from  Pekingese  falsetto  to  St.  Ber- 
nard bass-thunder.  An  open  stretch  of  shaded 
sward — backed  by  a  stable  that  looked  more  like  a 
dissolute  cathedral — had  been  given  over  to  ten 
double  rows  of  "benches,"  for  the  anchorage  of 
the  Show's  three  hundred  exhibits.  Above  the  cen- 
tral show-ring  a  banner  was  strung  between  two 
tree  tops.  It  bore  a  blazing  red  cross  at  either  end. 
In  its  center  was  the  legend: 

"WELCOME  TO  GLURE  TOWERS!" 

The  Wall  Street  Farmer,  as  I  have  hinted,  was 
a  man  of  much  taste — of  a  sort. 

Lad  had  enjoyed  the  ten^mile  spin  through  the 
morning  air,  in  the  tonneau  of  The  Place's 


THE  GOLD  HAT  189 

only  car — albeit  the  course  of  baths  and  combings 
of  the  past  week  had  long  since  made  him  morbidly 
aware  that  a  detested  dog  show  was  somewhere  at 
hand.  Now,  even  before  the  car  entered  the  fear- 
some feudal  gateway  of  Glure  Towers,  the  collie's 
ears  and  nose  told  him  the  hour  of  ordeal  was  at 
hand. 

His  zest  in  the  ride  vanished.  He  looked  re- 
proachfully at  the  Mistress  and  tried  to  bury  his 
head  under  her  circling  arm.  Lad  loathed  dog 
shows;  as  does  every  dog  of  high-strung  nerves 
and  higher  intelligence.  The  Mistress,  after  one  ex- 
perience, had  refrained  from  breaking  his  heart  by 
taking  him  to  those  horrors  known  as  "two-or- 
mo re-day  Shows."  But,  as  she  herself  took  such 
childish  delight  in  the  local  one-day  contests,  she  had 
schooled  herself  to  believe  Lad  must  enjoy  them, 
too. 

Lad,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  preferred  these  milder 
ordeals,  merely  as  a  man  might  prefer  one  day 
of  jail  or  toothache  to  two  or  more  days  of  the 
same  misery.  But — even  as  he  knew  many  lesser 
things — he  knew  the  adored  Mistress  and  Master 
reveled  in  such  atrocities  as  dog  shows ;  and  that  he, 
for  some  reason,  was  part  of  his  two  gods'  pleas- 
ure in  them.  Therefore,  he  made  the  best  of  the 
nuisance.  Which  led  his  owners  to  a  certainty 
that  he  had  grown  to  like  it. 

Parking  the  car,  the  Mistress  and  Master  led 
the  unhappy  dog  to  the  clerk's  desk;  received  his 


190  LAD:    A  DOG 

number  tag  and  card,  and  were  shown  where  to 
bench  him.  They  made  Lad  as  nearly  comfortable 
as  possible,  on  a  straw-littered  raised  stall ;  between 
a  supercilious  Merle  and  a  fluffily  disconsolate  sable- 
and-white  six-month  puppy  that  howled  ceaselessly 
in  an  agony  of  fright. 

The  Master  paused  for  a  moment  in  his  quest  of 
water  for  Lad,  and  stared  open-mouthed  at  the 
Merle. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  mumbled,  touching  the  Mis- 
tress* arm  and  pointing  to  the  gray  dog.  "That's 
the  most  magnificent  collie  I  ever  set  eyes  on.  It's 
farewell  to  poor  old  Laddie's  hopes,  if  he  is  in  any 
of  the  same  classes  with  that  marvel.  Say  goodby, 
right  now,  to  your  hopes  of  the  Gold  Cup;  and  to 
'Winners'  in  the  regular  collie  division." 

"I  won't  say  goodby  to  it,"  refused  the  Mistress. 
"I  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  Lad's  every  bit 
as  beautiful  as  that  dog.  Every  single  bit." 

"But  not  from  the  show-judge's  view,"  said  the 
Master.  "This  Merle's  a  gem.  Where  in  blazes  did 
he  drop  from,  I  wonder?  These  'no-point'  out-of- 
town  Specialty  Shows  don't  attract  the  stars  of  the 
Kennel  Club  circuits.  Yet,  this  is  as  perfect  a  dog 
as  ever  Grey  Mist  was.  It's  a  pleasure  to  see  such 
an  animal.  Or,"  he  corrected  himself,  "it  would 
be,  if  he  wasn't  pitted  against  dear  old  Lad.  I'd 
rather  be  kicked  than  take  Lad  to  a  show  to  be 
beaten.  Not  for  my  sake  or  even  for  yours.  But 
for  his.  Lad  will  be  sure  to  know.  He  knows 


THE  GOLD  HAT  191 

everything.    Laddie,  old  friend,  I'm  sorry.    Dead- 
sorry" 

He  stooped  down  and  patted  Lad's  satin  head. 
Both  Master  and  Mistress  had  always  carried  their 
fondness  for  Lad  to  an  extent  that  perhaps  was 
absurd.  Certainly  absurd  to  the  man  or  woman 
who  has  never  owned  such  a  super-dog  as  Lad. 
As  not  one  man  or  woman  in  a  thousand  has. 

Together,  the  Mistress  and  the  Master  made 
their  way  along  the  collie  section,  trying  to  be  in- 
terested in  the  line  of  barking  or  yelling  entries. 

"Twenty-one  collies  in  all,"  summed  up  the  Mas- 
ter, as  they  reached  the  end.  "Some  quality  dogs 
among  them,  too.  But  not  one  of  the  lot,  except 
the  Merle,  that  I'd  be  afraid  to  have  Lad  judged 
against.  The  Merle's  our  Waterloo.  Lad  is  due 
for  his  first  defeat.  Well,  it'll  be  a  fair  one.  That's 
one  comfort." 

"It  doesn't  comfort  me,  in  the  very  least,"  re- 
turned the  Mistress,  adding: 

"Look !  There  is  the  trophy  table.  Let's  go  over. 
Perhaps  the  Gold  Cup  is  there.  If  it  isn't  too 
precious  to  leave  out  in  the  open." 

The  Gold  Cup  was  there.  It  was  plainly — or, 
rather,  flamingly — visible.  Indeed,  it  smote  the  eye 
from  afar.  It  made  the  surrounding  array  of  pretty 
silver  cups  and  engraved  medals  look  tawdrily  in- 
significant. Its  presence  had,  already,  drawn  a 
goodly  number  of  admirers — folk  at  whom  the 


192  LAD:    A  DOG 

guardian  village  constable,  behind  the  table,  stared 
with  sour  distrust. 

The  Gold  Cup  was  a  huge  bowl  of  unchased 
metal,  its  softly  glowing  surface  marred  only  by  the 
script  words: 

"Maury  Specialty  Gold  Cup.    Awarded  to " 

There  could  be  no  shadow  of  doubt  as  to  the  gen- 
uineness of  the  claim  that  the  trophy  was  of  eight- 
een-karat  gold.  Its  value  spoke  for  itself.  The  ves- 
sel was  like  a  half  melon  in  contour  and  was  sup- 
ported by  four  severely  plain  claws.  Its  rim  flared 
outward  in  a  wide  curve. 

"It's — it's  all  the  world  like  an  inverted  derby 
hat!"  exclaimed  the  Mistress,  after  one  long  dumb 
look  at  it.  "And  it's  every  bit  as  big  as  a  derby 
hat.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  ugly — and  so 
Croesus f  ul  ?  Why,  it  must  have  cost — it  must  have 
cost " 

"Just  sixteen  hundred  dollars,  Ma'am,"  supple- 
mented the  constable,  beginning  to  take  pride  in  his 
office  of  guardian  to  such  a  treasure.  "Sixteen  hun- 
dred dollars,  flat.  I  heard  Mr.  Glure  say  in*  so  my- 
self. Don't  go  handlin'  it,  please." 

"Handling  it?"  repeated  The  Mistress.  "I'd  as 
soon  think  of  handling  the  National  Debt !" 

The  Superintendent  of  the  Show  strolled  up  and 
greeted  the  Mistress  and  the  Master.  The  latter 
scarce  heard  the  neighborly  greeting.  He  was 
scowling  at  the  precious  trophy  as  at  a  personal 
foe. 


THE  GOLD  HAT  193 

"I  see  you've  entered  Lad  for  the  Gold  Cup/'  said 
the  Superintendent.  "Sixteen  collies,  in  all,  are  en- 
tered for  it.  The  conditions  for  the  Gold  Cup  con- 
test weren't  printed  till  too  late  to  mail  them.  So 
I'm  handing  out  the  slips  this  morning.  Mr.  Glure 
took  charge  of  their  printing.  They  didn't  get  here 
from  the  job  shop  till  half  an  hour  ago.  And  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  they're  causing  a  lot  of  kicks. 
Here's  one  of  the  copies.  Look  it  over,  and  see 
what  Lad's  up  against." 

"Who's  the  Hon.  Hugh  Lester  Maury,  of  New 
York?"  suddenly  demanded  the  Master,  rousing 
himself  from  his  glum  inspection  of  the  Cup.  "I 
mean  the  man  who  donated  that — that  Gold  Hat?" 

"Gold  Hat!"  echoed  the  Superintendent,  with  a 
chuckle  of  joy.  "Gold  Hat!  Now  you  say  so,  I 
can't  make  it  look  like  anything  else.  A  derby, 
upside  down,  with  four " 

"Who's  Maury?"  insisted  the  Master. 

"He's  the  original  Man  of  Mystery,"  returned 
the  Superintendent,  dropping  his  voice  to  exclude 
the  constable.  "I  wanted  to  get  in  touch  with  him 
about  the  delayed  set  of  conditions.  I  looked  him 
up.  That  is,  I  tried  to.  He  is  advertised  in  the 
premium  list,  as  a  New  Yorker.  You'll  remember 
that,  but  his  name  isn't  in  the  New  York  City 
Directory  or  in  the  New  York  City  telephone  book 
or  in  the  suburban  telephone  book.  He  can  afford 
to  give  a  sixteen  hundred  dollar-cup  for  charity, 
but  it  seems  he  isn't  important  enough  to  get  his 


194  LAD:    A  DOG 

name  in  any  directory.  Funny,  isn't  it?  I  asked 
Glure  about  him.  That's  all  the  good  it  did  me." 

"You  don't  mean ?"  began  the  Mistress,  ex- 
citedly. 

"I  don't  mean  anything,"  the  Superintendent  hur- 
ried to  forestall  her.  "I'm  paid  to  take  charge  of 
this  Show.  It's  no  affair  of  mine  if " 

"If  Mr.  Glure  chooses  to  invent  Hugh  Lester 
Maury  and  make  him  give  a  Gold  Hat  for  a  collie 
prize?"  suggested  the  Mistress.  "But " 

"I  didn't  say  so,"  denied  the  superintendent. 
"And  it's  none  of  my  business,  anyhow. 
Here's- 

"But  why  should  Mr.  Glure  do  such  a  thing?" 
asked  the  Mistress,  in  wonder.  "I  never  heard  of 
his  shrinking  coyly  behind  another  name  when  he 
wanted  to  spend  money.  I  don't  understand  why 
he- 

"Here  is  the  conditions-list  for  the  Maury  Spe- 
cialty Cup,"  interposed  the  superintendent  with 
extreme  irrelevance,  as  he  handed  her  a  pink  slip 
of  paper.  "Glance  over  it." 

The  Mistress  took  the  slip  and  read  aloud  for 
the  benefit  of  the  Master  who  was  still  glowering 
at  the  Gold  Hat : 

"Conditions  of  Contest  for  Hugh  Lester  Maury 
Gold  Cup: 

"  'First. — No  collie  shall  be  eligible  that  has  not 
already  taken  at  least  one  blue  ribbon  at  a  licensed 
American  or  British  Kennel  Club  Show.' " 


THE  GOLD  HAT  195 

"That  single  clause  has  barred  out  eleven  of  the 
sixteen  entrants,"  commented  the  Superintendent. 
"You  see,  most  of  the  dogs  at  these  local  Shows 
are  pets,  and  hardly  any  of  them  have  been  to 
Madison  Square  Garden  or  to  any  of  the  other 
A.  K.  C.  shows.  The  few  that  have  been  to  them 
seldom  got  a  Blue." 

"Lad  did!"  exclaimed  the  Mistress  joyfully. 
"He  took  two  Blues  at  the  Garden  last  year;  and 
then,  you  remember,  it  was  so  horrible  for  him 
there  we  broke  the  rules  and  brought  him  home 
without  waiting  for " 

"I  know,"  said  the  Superintendent,  "but  read  the 
rest." 

"'Second,'"  read  the  Mistress.  "  'Each  con- 
testant must  have  a  certified  five-generation  pedi- 
gree, containing  the  names  of  at  least  ten  cham- 
pions.' Lad  had  twelve  in  his  pedigree,"  she  added, 
"and  it's  certified." 

"Two  more  entrants  were  killed  out  by  that 
clause,"  remarked  the  Superintendent,  "leaving  only 
three  out  of  the  original  sixteen.  Now  go  ahead 
with  the  clause  that  puts  poor  old  Lad  and  one 
other  out  of  the  running.  I'm  sorry." 

"  'Third'  the  Mistress  read,  her  brows  crinkling 
and  her  voice  trailing  as  she  proceeded.  '  'Each 
contestant  must  go  successfully  through  the  pre- 
liminary maneuvers  prescribed  by  the  Ktrkaldie 
Association,  Inc.,  of  Great  Britain,  for  its  Working 
Sheepdog  Trials.'— But,"  she  protested,  "Lad  isn't 


196  LAD:    A  DOG 

a  'working*  sheepdog!  Why,  this  is  some  kind  of 
a  joke!  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing — even  in  a 
Specialty  Show/' 

"No,"  agreed  the  Superintendent,  "nor  anybody 
else.  Naturally,  Lad  isn't  a  'working'  sheepdog. 
There  probably  haven't  been  three  'working'  sheep- 
dogs born  within  a  hundred  miles  of  here,  and  it's 
a  mighty  safe  bet  that  no  'working*  sheepdog  has 
ever  taken  a  'Blue'  at  an  A.  K.  C.  Show.  A  'work- 
ing' dog  is  almost  never  a  show  dog.  I  know  of 
only  one  either  here  or  in  England ;  and  he's  a  freak 
— a  miracle.  So  much  so,  that  he's  famous  all  over 
the  dog-world." 

"Do  you  mean  Champion  Lochinvar  III  ?"  asked 
the  Mistress.  "The  dog  the  Duke  of  Hereford  used 
to  own?" 

"That's  the  dog.     The  only " 

"We  read  about  him  in  the  Collie  Folio,"  said 
the  Mistress.  "His  picture  was  there,  too.  He  was 
sent  to  Scotland  when  he  was  a  puppy,  the  Folio 
said,  and  trained  to  herd  sheep  before  ever  he  was 
shown.  His  owner  was  trying  to  induce  other 
collie- fanciers  to  make  their  dogs  useful  and  not 
just  Show-exhibits.  Lochinvar  is  an  international 
champion,  too,  isn't  he?" 

The  Superintendent  nodded. 

"If  the  Duke  of  Hereford  lived  in  New  Jersey," 
pursued  the  Mistress,  trying  to  talk  down  her  keen 
chagrin  over  Lad's  mishap,  "Lochinvar  might  have 
a  chance  to  win  a  nice  Gold  Hat." 


THE  GOLD  HAT  197 

"He  has,"  replied  the  superintendent  "He  has 
every  chance,  and  the  only  chance." 

"Who  has?"  queried  the  puzzled  Mistress. 

"Champion  Lochinvar  III,"  was  the  answer. 
"Glure  bought  him  by  cable.  Paid  $7000  for  him. 
That  eclipses  Untermeyer's  record  price  of  $6500 
for  old  Squire  of  Tytton.  The  dog  arrived  last 
week.  He's  here.  A  big  Blue  Merle.  You  ought 
to  look  him  over.  He's  a  wonder.  He " 

"Oh!"  exploded  the  Mistress.  "You  can't  mean 
it.  You  can't!  Why,  it's  the  most — the  most 
hideously  unsportsmanlike  thing  I  ever  heard  of 
in  my  life!  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  Mr.  Glure 
put  up  this  sixteen  hundred-dollar  cup  and  then  sent 
for  the  only  dog  that  could  fulfill  the  Trophy's 
conditions?  It's  unbelievable!" 

"It's  Glure,"  tersely  replied  the  Superintendent. 
"Which  perhaps  comes  to  the  same  thing." 

"Yes !"  spoke  up  the  Master  harshly,  entering  the 
talk  for  the  first  time,  and  tearing  his  disgusted 
attention  from  the  Gold  Hat.  "Yes,  it's  Glure, 
and  it's  unbelievable!  And  it's  worse  than  either 
of  those,  if  anything  can  be.  Don't  you  see  the 
full  rottenness  of  it  all?  Half  the  world  is  starv- 
ing or  sick  or  wounded.  The  other  half  is  working 
its  fingers  off  to  help  the  Red  Cross  make  Europe 
a  little  less  like  hell;  and,  when  every  cent  counts 
in  the  work,  this — this  Wall  Street  Farmer  spends 
sixteen  hundred  precious  dollars  to  buy  himself  a 
Gold  Hat;  and  he  does  it  under  the  auspices  of 


198  LAD:    A  DOG 

the  Red  Cross,  in  the  holy  name  of  charity.  The 
unsportsmanlikeness  of  it  is  nothing  to  that.  It's 
— it's  an  Unpardonable  Sin,  and  I  don't  want  to 
endorse  it  by  staying  here.  Let's  get  Lad  and  go 
home." 

"I  wish  to  heaven  we  could!"  flamed  the  Mis- 
tress, as  angry  as  he.  "I'd  do  it  in  a  minute  if  we 
were  able  to.  I  feel  we're  insulting  loyal  old  Lad 
by  making  him  a  party  to  it  all.  But  we  can't  go. 
Don't  you  see?  Mr.  Glure  is  unsportsmanlike,  but 
that's  no  reason  we  should  be.  You've  told  me, 
again  and  again,  that  no  true  sportsman  will  back 
out  of  a  contest  just  because  he  finds  he  has  no 
chance  of  winning  it." 

"She's  right,"  chimed  in  the  Superintendent. 
"You've  entered  the  dog  for  the  contest,  and  by 
all  the  rules  he'll  have  to  stay  in  it.  Lad  doesn't 
know  the  first  thing  about  'working.'  Neither  does 
the  only  other  local  entrant  that  the  first  two  rules 
have  left  in  the  competition.  And  Lochinvar  is  per- 
fect at  every  detail  of  sheep-work.  Lad  and  the 
other  can't  do  anything  but  swell  his  victory.  It's 
rank  bad  luck,  but " 

"All  right!  All  right!"  growled  the  Master. 
"We'll  go  through  with  it.  Does  anyone  know  the 
terms  of  a  'Kirkaldie  Association's  Preliminaries,' 
for  'Working  Sheepdog  Trials?'  My  own  early 
education  was  neglected." 

"Glure's  education  wasn't,"  said  the  Superin- 
tendent. "He  has  the  full  set  of  rules  in  his  brand 


THE  GOLD  HAT 

new  Sportsman  Library.  That's,  no  doubt,  where 
he  got  the  idea.  I  went  to  him  for  them  this  morn- 
ing, and  he  let  me  copy  the  laws  governing  the 
preliminaries.  They're  absurdly  simple  for  a 
'working*  dog  and  absurdly  impossible  for  a  non- 
worker.  Here,  I'll  read  them  over  to  you." 

He  fished  out  a  folded  sheet  of  paper  and  read 
aloud  a  few  lines  of  pencil-scribblings : 

"Four  posts  shall  be  set  up,  at  ninety  yards  apart, 
at  the  corners  of  a  square  enclosure.  A  fifth  post 
shall  be  set  in  the  center.  At  this  fifth  post  the 
owner  or  handler  of  the  contestant  shall  stand  with 
his  dog.  Nor  shall  such  owner  or  handler  move 
more  than  three  feet  from  the  post  until  his  dog* 
shall  have  completed  the  trial. 

"Guided  only  by  voice  and  by  signs,  the  dog 
shall  go  alone  from  the  center-post  to  the  post 
numbered  'i.'  He  shall  go  thence,  in  the  order 
named,  to  Posts  2,  3  and  4,  without  returning  to 
within  fifteen  feet  of  the  central  post  until  he  shall 
have  reached  Post  4. 

"Speed  and  form  shall  count  as  seventy  points  in 
these  evolutions.  Thirty  points  shall  be  added  to 
the  score  of  the  dog  or  dogs  which  shall  make  the 
prescribed  tour  of  the  posts  directed  wholly  by 
signs  and  without  the  guidance  of  voice." 

"There,"  finished  the  superintendent,  "you  see  it 
is  as  simple  as  a  kindergarten  game.  But  a  child 
who  had  never  been  taught  could  not  play  Tuss- 
m-the-Corner.'  I  was  talking  to  the  English 


200  LAD:    A  DOG 

trainer  that  Glure  bought  along  with  the  dog.  The 
trainer  tells  me  Lochinvar  can  go  through  those 
maneuvers  and  a  hundred  harder  ones  without  a 
word  being  spoken.  He  works  entirely  by  gestures. 
He  watches  the  trainer's  hand.  Where  the  hand 
points  he  goes.  A'  snap  of  the  fingers  halts  him. 
Then  he  looks  back  for  the  next  gesture.  The 
trainer  says  it's  a  delight  to  watch  him." 

"The  delight  is  all  his,"  grumbled  the  Master. 
"Poor,  poor  Lad!  He'll  get  bewildered  and  un- 
happy. He'll  want  to  do  whatever  we  tell  him  to, 
but  he  can't  understand.  It  was  different  the  time 
he  rounded  up  Glure's  flock  of  sheep — when  he'd 
never  seen  a  sheep  before.  That  was  ancestral 
instinct.  A  throwback.  But  ancestral  instinct 
won't  teach  him  to  go  to  Post  I  and  2  and  3  and 
4.  He " 

"Hello,  people!"  boomed  a  jarringly  cordial 
voice.  "Welcome  to  the  Towers!" 

Bearing  down  upon  the  trio  was  a  large  person, 
round  and  yellow  of  face  and  clad  elaborately  in 
a  morning  costume  that  suggested  a  stud-groom 
with  ministerial  tendencies.  He  was  dressed  for 
the  Occasion.  Mr.  Glure  was  always  dressed  for 
the  Occasion. 

"Hello,  people!"  repeated  the  Wall  Street 
Farmer,  alternately  pump-handling  the  totally  un- 
responsive Mistress  and  Master.  "I  see  you've  been 
admiring  the  Maury  Trophy.  Magnificent,  eh? 
Oh,  Maury's  a  prince,  I  tell  you!  A  prince!  A 


THE  GOLD  HAT  201 

bit  eccentric,  perhaps — as  you'll  have  guessed  by 
the  conditions  he's  put  up  for  the  cup.  But  a  prince. 
A  prince!  We  think  everything  of  him  on  the 
Street.  Have  you  seen  my  new  dog?  Oh,  you 
must  go  and  take  a  look  at  Lochinvar !  I'm  enter- 
ing him  for  the  Maury  Trophy,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  Master  dully,  as  Mr.  Glure 
paused  to  breathe.  "I  know." 

He  left  his  exultant  host  with  some  abruptness, 
and  piloted  the  Mistress  back  to  the  Collie  Section. 
There  they  came  upon  a  scene  of  dire  wrath.  Dis- 
gruntled owners  were  loudly  denouncing  the  Maury 
conditions-list,  and  they  redoubled  their  plaint  at 
sight  of  the  two  new  victims  of  the  trick. 

Folk  who  had  bathed  and  brushed  and  burnished 
their  pets  for  days,  in  eager  anticipation  of  a 
neighborhood  contest,  gargled  in  positive  hatred  at 
the  glorious  Merle.  They  read  the  pink  slips  over 
and  over  with  more  rage  at  each  perusal. 

One  pretty  girl  had  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a 
bench,  gathering  her  beloved  gold-and-white  collie's 
head  in  her  lap,  and  was  crying  unashamed.  The 
Master  glanced  at  her.  Then  he  swore  softly,  and 
set  to  work  helping  the  Mistress  in  the  task  of 
fluffing  Lad's  glossy  coat  to  a  final  soft  shagginess. 

Neither  of  them  spoke.  There  was  nothing  to 
say;  but  Lad  realized  more  keenly  than  could  a 
human  that  both  his  gods  were  wretchedly  un- 
happy, and  his  great  heart  yearned  pathetically  to 
comfort  them. 


202  LAD:    A  DOG 

"There's  one  consolation,"  said  a  woman  at  work 
on  a  dog  in  the  opposite  bench,  "Lochinvar's  not 
entered  for  anything  except  the  Maury  Cup.  The 
clerk  told  me  so." 

"Little  good  that  will  do  any  of  us!"  retorted 
her  bench-neighbor.  "In  an  all-specialty  show,  the 
winner  of  the  Maury  Trophy  will  go  up  for  the 
'Winners  Class,"  and  that  means  Lochinvar  will 
get  the  cup  for  the  'Best  Collie/  as  well  as  the 
Maury  Cup  and  probably  the  cup  for  'Best  Dog  of 
any  Breed/  too.  And " 

"The  Maury  Cup  is  the  first  collie  event  on  the 
programme,"  lamented  the  other.  "It's  slated  to  be 
called  before  even  the  Puppy  and  the  Novice  classes. 
Mr.  Glure  has " 

"Contestants  for  the  Maury  Trophy — all  out!" 
bawled  an  attendant  at  the  end  of  the  section. 

The  Master  unclasped  the  chain  from  Lad's 
collar,  snapped  the  light  show-ring  leash  in  its  place 
and  handed  the  leash  to  the  Mistress. 

"Unless  you'd  rather  have  me  take  him  in?"  he 
whispered.  "I  hate  to  think  of  your  handling  a 
loser." 

"I'd  rather  take  Lad  to  defeat  than  any  other 
dog  to — a  Gold  Hat,"  she  answered,  sturdily. 
"Come  along,  Laddie!" 

The  Maury  contest,  naturally,  could  not  be  de- 
cided in  the  regular  show-ring.  Mr.  Glure  had 
thoughtfully  set  aside  a  quadrangle  of  greensward 
for  the  Event — a  quadrangle  bounded  by  four  white 


THE  GOLD  HAT  203 

and  numbered  posts,  and  bearing  a  larger  white 
post  in  its  center. 

A  throng  of  people  was  already  banked  deep 
on  all  four  sides  of  the  enclosure  when  the  Mis- 
tress arrived.  The  collie  judge  standing  by  the 
central  post  declaimed  loudly  the  conditions  of  the 
contest.  Then  he  asked  for  the  first  entrant. 

This  courtier  of  failure  chanced  to  be  the  only 
other  local  dog  besides  Lad  that  had  survived  the 
first  two  clauses  of  the  conditions.  He  chanced 
also  to  be  the  dog  over  which  the  pretty  girl  had 
been  crying. 

The  girl's  eyes  were  still  red  through  a  haze  of 
powder  as  she  led  her  slender  little  gold-and-snow 
collie  into  the  ring.  She  had  put  on  a  filmy  white 
muslin  dress  with  gold  ribbons  that  morning  with 
the  idea  of  matching  her  dog's  coloring.  She  looked 
very  sweet  and  dainty — and  heartsore. 

At  the  central  post  she  glanced  up  hopelessly  at 
the  judge  who  stood  beside  her.  The  judge  indi- 
cated Post  No.  I  with  a  nod.  The  girl  blinked 
at  the  distant  post,  then  at  her  collie,  after  which 
she  pointed  to  the  post. 

"Run  on  over  there,  Mac !"  she  pleaded.  "That's 
a  good  boy!" 

The  little  collie  wagged  his  tail,  peered  expect- 
antly at  her,  and  barked.  But  he  did  not  stir.  He 
had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  she  wanted  him  to 
do,  although  he  would  have  been  glad  to  do  it. 
Wherefore,  the  bark. 


204  LAD:    A  DOG 

Presently  (after  several  more  fruitless  entreaties 
which  reduced  the  dog  to  a  paroxysm  of  barking) 
she  led  her  collie  out  of  the  enclosure,  strangling 
her  sobs  as  she  went.  And  again  the  Master  swore 
softly,  but  with  much  venomous  ardor. 

And  now,  at  the  judge's  command,  the  Mistress 
led  Lad  into  the  quadrangle  and  up  to  the  central 
post.  She  was  very  pale,  but  her  thoroughbred 
nerves  were  rocklike  in  their  steadiness.  She,  like 
Lad,  was  of  the  breed  that  goes  down  fighting. 
Lad  walked  majestically  beside  her,  his  eyes  dark 
with  sorrow  over  his  goddess*  unhappiness,  which 
he  could  not  at  all  understand  and  which  he  so 
longed  to  lighten.  Hitherto,  at  dog  shows,  Lad  had 
been  the  only  representative  of  The  Place  to  grieve. 

He  thrust  his  nose  lovingly  into  the  Mistress' 
hand,  as  he  moved  along  with  her  to  the  post;  and 
he  whined,  under  his  breath. 

Ranging  up  beside  the  judge,  the  Mistress  took 
off  Lad's  leash  and  collar.  Stroking  the  dog's  up- 
raised head,  she  pointed  to  the  No.  I  Post. 

"Over  there,"  she  bade  him. 

Lad  looked  in  momentary  doubt  at  her,  and  then 
at  the  post.  He  did  not  see  the  connection,  nor 
know  what  he  was  expected  to  do.  So,  again  he 
looked  at  the  sorrowing  face  bent  over  him. 

"Lad!"  said  the  Mistress  gently,  pointing  once 
more  to  the  Post.  "Go !" 

Now,  there  was  not  one  dog  at  The  Place  that 
had  not  known  from  puppy-hood  the  meaning  of 


THE  GOLD  HAT  205 

the  word  "Go!"  coupled  with  the  pointing  of  a 
finger.  Fingers  had  pointed,  hundreds  of  times, 
to  kennels  or  to  the  open  doorways  or  to  canoe- 
bottoms  or  to  car  tonneaus  or  to  whatsoever  spot 
the  dog  in  question  was  desired  to  betake  himself. 
And  the  word  "Go!"  had  always  accompanied  the 
motion. 

Lad  still  did  not  see  why  he  was  to  go  where  the 
steady  finger  indicated.  There  was  nothing  of  in- 
terest over  there;  no  one  to  attack  at  command. 
But  he  went. 

He  walked  for  perhaps  fifty  feet ;  then  he  turned 
and  looked  back. 

"Go  on!"  called  the  voice  that  was  his  loved  Law. 

And  he  went  on.  Unquestionably,  as  uncompre- 
hendingly,  he  went,  because  the  Mistress  told  him 
to !  Since  she  had  brought  him  out  before  this  an- 
noying concourse  of  humans  to  show  off  his  obedi- 
ence all  he  could  do  was  to  obey.  The  knowledge 
of  her  mysterious  sadness  made  him  the  more 
anxious  to  please  her. 

So  on  he  went.  Presently,  as  his  progress 
brought  him  alongside  a  white  post,  he  heard  the 
Mistress  call  again.  He  wheeled  and  started  to- 
ward her  at  a  run.  Then  he  halted  again,  almost 
in  mid-air. 

For  her  hand  was  up  in  front  of  her,  palm  for- 
ward, in  a  gesture  that  had  meant  "Stop!"  from 
the  time  he  had  been  wont  to  run  into  the  house 
with  muddy  feet,  as  a  puppy. 


206  LAD:    A  DOG 

Lad  stood,  uncertain.  And  now  the  Mistress  was 
pointing  another  way  and  calling: 

"Go  on!  Lad!    Goon!" 

Confused,  the  dog  started  in  the  new  direction. 
He  went  slowly.  Once  or  twice  he  stopped  and 
looked  back  in  perplexity  at  her ;  but,  as  often,  came 
the  steady-voiced  order: 

"Go  on!  Lad!    Go  on!" 

On  plodded  Lad.  Vaguely,  he  was  beginning  to 
hate  this  new  game  played  without  known  rules 
and  in  the  presence  of  a  crowd.  Lad  abominated  a 
crowd. 

But  it  was  the  Mistress'  bidding,  and  in  her 
dear  voice  his  quick  hearing  could  read  what  no 
human  could  read — a  hard- fought  longing  to  cry. 
It  thrilled  the  big  dog,  this  subtle  note  of  grief. 
And  all  he  could  do  to  ease  her  sorrow,  apparently, 
was  to  obey  this  queer  new  whim  of  hers  as  best 
he  might. 

He  had  continued  his  unwilling  march  as  far  as 
another  post  when  the  welcome  word  of  recall  came 
— the  recall  that  would  bring  him  close  again  to 
his  sorrowing  deity.  With  a  bound  he  started  back 
to  her. 

But,  for  the  second  time,  came  that  palm-forward 
gesture  and  the  cry  of  "Stop!  Go  back!" 

Lad  paused  reluctantly  and  stood  panting.  This 
thing  was  getting  on  his  fine-strung  nerves.  And 
nervousness  ever  made  him  pant. 


THE  GOLD  HAT  207 

The  Mistress  pointed  in  still  another  direction, 
and  she  was  calling  almost  beseechingly: 

"Go  on,  Lad!    Go  on!" 

Her  pointing  hand  waved  him  ahead  and,  as  be- 
fore, he  followed  its  guidance.  Walking  heavily, 
his  brain  more  and  more  befogged,  Lad  obeyed. 
This  time  he  did  not  stop  to  look  to  her  for  in- 
structions. From  the  new  vehemence  of  the  Mis- 
tress' gesture  she  had  apparently  been  ordering  him 
off  the  field  in  disgrace,  as  he  had  seen  puppies 
ordered  from  the  house.  Head  and  tail  down,  he 
went. 

But,  as  he  passed  by  the  third  of  those  silly  posts, 
she  recalled  him.  Gleeful  to  know  he  was  no  longer 
in  disgrace  he  galloped  toward  the  Mistress;  only 
to  be  halted  again  by  that  sharp  gesture  and  sharper 
command  before  he  had  covered  a  fifth  of  the 
distance  from  the  post  to  herself. 

The  Mistress  was  actually  pointing  again — more 
urgently  than  ever — and  in  still  another  direction. 
Now  her  voice  had  in  it  a  quiver  that  even  the 
humans  could  detect;  a  quiver  that  made  its  sweet- 
ness all  but  sharp. 

"Goon,  Lad!    Goon!" 

Utterly  bewildered  at  his  usually  moodless  Mis- 
tress* crazy  mood  and  spurred  by  the  sharp  repri- 
mand in  her  voice  Lad  moved  away  at  a  crestfallen 
walk.  Four  times  he  stopped  and  looked  back  at 
her,  in  piteous  appeal,  asking  forgiveness  of  the 
unknown  fault  for  which  she  was  ordering  him 


208  LAD:    A  DOQ 

away;  but  always  he  was  met  by  the  same  fierce 
"Go  on!'9 

And  he  went. 

Of  a  sudden,  from  along  the  tight-crowded  edges 
of  the  quadrangle,  went  up  a  prodigious  handclap- 
ping  punctuated  by  such  foolish  and  ear-grating 
yells  as  "Good  boy!"  "Good  old  Laddie!"  "He 
did  it!" 

And  through  the  looser  volume  of  sound  came 
the  Mistress'  call  of: 

"Laddie!    Here,  La d!" 

In  doubt,  Lad  turned  to  face  her.  Hesitatingly 
he  went  toward  her  expecting  at  every  step  that 
hateful  command  of  "Go  back!" 

But  she  did  not  send  him  back.  Instead,  she  was 
running  forward  to  meet  him.  And  out  of  her  face 
the  sorrow — but  not  the  desire  to  cry — had  been 
swept  away  by  a  tremulous  smile. 

Down  on  her  knees  beside  Lad  the  Mistress 
flung  herself,  and  gathered  his  head  in  her  arms 
and  told  him  what  a  splendid,  dear  dog  he  was  and 
how  proud  she  was  of  him. 

All  Lad  had  done  was  to  obey  orders,  as  any  dog 
of  his  brain  and  heart  and  home  training  might 
have  obeyed  them.  Yet,  for  some  unexplained  rea- 
son, he  had  made  the  Mistress  wildly  happy.  And 
that  was  enough  for  Lad. 

Forgetful  of  the  crowd,  he  licked  at  her  caress- 
ing hands  in  puppylike  ecstasy;  then  he  rolled  in 
front  of  her ;  growling  ferociously  and  catching  one 


THE  GOLD  HAT  209 

of  her  little  feet  in  his  mighty  jaws,  as  though  to 
crush  it.  This  foot-seizing  game  was  Lad's  favor- 
ite romp  with  the  Mistress.  With  no  one  else 
would  he  condescend  to  play  it,  and  the  terrible 
white  teeth  never  exerted  the  pressure  of  a  tenth 
of  an  ounce  on  the  slipper  they  gripped. 

"Laddie!"  the  Mistress  was  whispering  to  him, 
"Laddie!  You  did  it,  old  friend.  You  did  it  ter- 
ribly badly  I  suppose,  and  of  course  we'll  lose.  But 
we'll  'lose  right.'  We've  made  the  contest.  You 
did  it!" 

And  now  a  lot  of  noisy  and  bothersome  humans 
had  invaded  the  quadrangle  and  wanted  to  paw 
him  and  pat  him  and  praise  him.  Wherefore  Lad 
at  once  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  aloofly  disdainful 
of  everything  and  everybody.  He  detested  paw- 
ing; and,  indeed,  any  outsider's  handling. 

Through  the  congratulating  knot  of  folk  the 
Wall  Street  Farmer  elbowed  his  way  to  the  Mis- 
tress. 

"Well,  well!"  he  boomed.  "I  must  compliment 
you  on  Lad !  A  really  intelligent  dog.  I  was  sur- 
prised. I  didn't  think  any  dog  could  make  the 
round  unless  he'd  been  trained  to  it.  Quite  a  dog! 
But,  of  course,  you  had  to  call  to  him  a  good  many 
times.  And  you  were  signaling  pretty  steadily 
every  second.  Those  things  count  heavily  against 
you,  you  know.  In  fact,  they  goose-egg  your 
chances  if  another  entrant  can  go  the  round  with- 
out so  much  coaching.  Now  my  dog  Lochinvar 


210  LAD:    A  DOG 

never  needs  the  voice  at  all  and  he  needs  only  one 
slight  gesture  for  each  manceuver.  Still,  Lad  did 
very  nicely.  He — why  does  the  sulky  brute  pull 
away  when  I  try  to  pat  him?" 

"Perhaps,"  ventured  the  Mistress,  "perhaps  he 
didn't  catch  your  name." 

Then  she  and  the  Master  led  Lad  back  to  his 
bench  where  the  local  contingent  made  much  of 
him,  and  where — after  the  manner  of  a  high-bred 
dog  at  a  Show — he  drank  much  water  and  would 
eat  nothing. 

When  the  Mistress  went  again  to  the  quadrangle, 
the  crowd  was  banked  thicker  than  ever,  for  Loch- 
invar  III  was  about  to  compete  for  the  Maury 
Trophy. 

The  Wall  Street  Farmer  and  the  English  trainer 
had  delayed  the  Event  for  several  minutes  while 
they  went  through  a  strenuous  dispute.  As  the 
Mistress  came  up  she  heard  Glure  end  the  argument 
by  booming: 

"I  tell  you  that's  all  rot.  Why  shouldn't  he 
'work'  for  me  just  as  well  as  he'd  'work'  for  you? 
I'm  his  Master,  ain't  I?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  trainer,  glumly.    "Only  his 


owner." 


"I've  had  him  a  whole  week,"  declared  the  Wall 
Street  Farmer,  "and  I've  put  him  through  those 
rounds  a  dozen  times.  He  knows  me  and  he  goes 
through  it  all  like  clockwork  for  me.  Here !  Give 
me  his  leash !" 


THE   GOLD  HAT 

He  snatched  the  leather  cord  from  the  protest- 
ing trainer  and,  with  a  yank  at  it,  started  with 
Lochinvar  toward  the  central  post.  The  aristo- 
cratic Merle  resented  the  uncalled-for  tug  by  a 
flash  of  teeth.  Then  he  thought  better  of  the 
matter,  swallowed  his  resentment  and  paced  along 
beside  his  visibly  proud  owner. 

A  murmur  of  admiration  went  through  the 
crowd  at  sight  of  Lochinvar  as  he  moved  forward. 
The  dog  was  a  joy  to  look  on.  Such  a  dog  as  one 
sees  perhaps  thrice  in  a  lifetime.  Such  a  dog  for 
perfect  beauty,  as  were  Southport  Sample,  Grey 
Mist,  Howgill  Rival,  Sunnybank  Goldsmith  or 
Squire  of  Tytton.  A  dog,  for  looks,  that  was  the 
despair  of  all  competing  dogdom. 

Proudly  perfect  in  carriage,  in  mist-gray  coat,  in 
a  hundred  points — from  the  noble  pale-eyed  head 
to  the  long  massy  brush — Lochinvar  III  made 
people  catch  their  breath  and  stare.  Even  the  Mis- 
tress' heart  went  out — though  with  a  tinge  of 
shame  for  disloyalty  to  Lad — at  his  beauty. 

Arrived  at  the  central  post,  the  Wall  Street 
Farmer  unsnapped  th3  leash.  Then,  one  hand  on 
the  Merle's  head  and  the  other  holding  a  half- 
smoked  cigar  between  two  pudgy  fingers,  he  smiled 
upon  the  tense  onlookers. 

This  was  his  Moment.  This  was  the  supreme 
moment  which  had  cost  him  nearly  ten  thousand 
dollars  in  all.  He  was  due,  at  last,  to  win  a  trophy 
that  would  be  the  talk  of  all  the  sporting  universe. 


LAD:    A  DOG 

These  country-folk  who  had  won  lesser  prizes  from 
under  his  very  nose — how  they  would  stare,  after 
this,  at  his  gun-room  treasures ! 

"Ready,  Mr.  Glure?"  asked  the  Judge. 

"All  ready !"  graciously  returned  the  Wall  Street 
Farmer. 

Taking  a  pull  at  his  thick  cigar,  and  replacing 
it  between  the  first  two  fingers  of  his  right  hand, 
he  pointed  majestically  with  the  same  hand  to  the 
first  post. 

No  word  of  command  was  given;  yet  Lochinvar 
moved  off  at  a  sweeping  run  directly  in  the  line 
laid  out  by  his  owner's  gesture. 

As  the  Merle  came  alongside  the  post  the  Wall 
Street  Farmer  snapped  his  fingers.  Instantly 
Lochinvar  dropped  to  a  halt  and  stood  moveless, 
looking  back  for  the  next  gesture. 

This  "next  gesture"  was  wholly  impromptu.  In 
snapping  his  fingers  the  Wall  Street  Farmer  had 
not  taken  sufficient  account  of  the  cigar  stub  he 
held.  The  snapping  motion  had  brought  the  fire- 
end  of  the  stub  directly  between  his  first  and  second 
fingers,  close  to  the  palm.  The  red  coal  bit  deep 
into  those  two  tenderest  spots  of  all  the  hand. 

With  a  reverberating  snort  the  Wall  Street 
Farmer  dropped  the  cigar-butt  and  shook  his 
anguished  hand  rapidly  up  and  down,  in  the  first 
sting  of  pain.  The  loose  fingers  slapped  together 
like  the  strands  of  an  obese  cat-of-nine-tails. 

And  this  was  the  gesture  which  Lochinvar  beheld, 


THE  GOLD  HAT  213 

as  he  turned  to  catch  the  signal  for  his  next  move. 

Now,  the  frantic  St.  Vitus  shaking  of  the  hand 
and  arm,  accompanied  by  a  clumsy  step-dance  and 
a  mouthful  of  rich  oaths,  forms  no  signal  known  to 
the  very  cleverest  of  "working"  collies.  Neither 
does  the  inserting  of  two  burned  fingers  into  the 
signaler's  mouth — which  was  the  second  motion  the 
Merle  noted. 

Ignorant  as  to  the  meaning  of  either  of  these 
unique  signals  the  dog  stood,  puzzled.  The  Wall 
Street  Farmer  recovered  at  once  from  his  fit  of 
babyish  emotion,  and  motioned  his  dog  to  go  on  to 
the  next  post. 

The  Merle  did  not  move.  Here,  at  last,  was  a 
signal  he  understood  perfectly  well.  Yet,  after  the 
manner  of  the  best-taught  "working"  dogs,  he  had 
been  most  rigidly  trained  from  earliest  days  to  finish 
the  carrying  out  of  one  order  before  giving  heed 
to  another. 

He  had  received  the  signal  to  go  in  one  direc- 
tion. He  had  obeyed.  He  had  then  received  the 
familiar  signal  to  halt  and  to  await  instructions. 
Again  he  had  obeyed.  Next,  he  had  received  a 
wildly  emphatic  series  of  signals  whose  meaning 
he  could  not  read.  A  long  course  of  training  told 
him  he  must  wait  to  have  these  gestures  explained 
to  him  before  undertaking  to  obey  the  simple  signal 
that  had  followed. 

This,  in  his  training  kennel,  had  been  the  rule. 
When  a  pupil  did  not  understand  an  order  he  must 


LAD:    A  DOG 

stay  where  he  was  until  he  could  be  made  to  under- 
stand. He  must  not  dash  away  to  carry  out  a 
later  order  that  might  perhaps  be  intended  for  some 
other  pupil. 

Wherefore,  the  Merle  stood  stock  still.  The  Wall 
Street  Farmer  repeated  the  gesture  of  pointing 
toward  the  next  post.  Inquiringly,  Lochinvar 
watched  him.  The  Wall  Street  Farmer  made  the 
gesture  a  third  time — to  no  purpose  other  than  to 
deepen  the  dog's  look  of  inquiry.  Lochinvar  was 
abiding,  steadfastly,  by  his  hard-learned  lessons  of 
the  Scottish  moorland  days. 

Someone  in  the  crowd  tittered.  Someone  else 
sang  out  delightedly: 

"Lad  wins!" 

The  Wall  Street  Farmer  heard.  And  he  pro- 
ceeded to  mislay  his  easily-losable  self  control. 
Again,  these  inferior  country  folk  seemed  about  to 
wrest  from  him  a  prize  he  had  deemed  all  his  own, 
and  to  rejoice  in  the  prospect. 

"You  mongrel  cur!"  he  bellowed.  "Get  along 
there!" 

This  diction  meant  nothing  to  Lochinvar,  except 
that  his  owner's  temper  was  gone — and  with  it  his 
scanty  authority. 

Glure  saw  red — or  he  came  as  near  to  seeing  it 
as  can  anyone  outside  a  novel.  He  made  a  plunge 
across  the  quadrangle,  seized  the  beautiful  Merle  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  kicked  him. 


THE  GOLD  HAT  215 

Now,  here  was  something  the  dog  could  under- 
stand with  entire  ease.  This  loud-mouthed  vulga- 
rian giant,  whom  he  had  disliked  from  the  first, 
was  daring  to  lay  violent  hands  on  him — on  Cham- 
pion Lochinvar  III,  the  dog-aristocrat  that  had 
always  been  handled  with  deference  and  whose  ugly 
temper  had  never  been  trained  out  of  him. 

As  a  growl  of  hot  resentment  went  up  from  the 
onlookers,  a  far  more  murderously  resentful  growl 
went  up  from  the  depths  of  Lochinvar's  furry 
throat. 

In  a  flash,  the  Merle  had  wrenched  free  from  his 
owner's  neck-grip.  And,  in  practically  the  same 
moment,  his  curved  eye-teeth  were  burying  them- 
selves deep  in  the  calf  of  the  Wall  Street  Farmer's 
leg. 

Then  the  trainer  and  the  judge  seized  on  the 
snarlingly  floundering  pair.  What  the  outraged 
trainer  said,  as  he  ran  up,  -would  have  brought  a 
blush  to  the  cheek  of  a  waterside  bartender.  What 
the  judge  said  (in  a  tone  of  no  regret,  whatever) 
was: 

"Mr.  Glure,  you  have  forfeited  the  match  by  mov- 
ing more  than  three  feet  from  the  central  post. 
But  your  dog  had  already  lost  it  by  refusing  to 
'work'  at  your  command.  Lad  wins  the  Maury 
Trophy." 

****** 

So  it  was  that  the  Gold  Hat,  as  well  as  the 


216  LAD:    A  DOG 

modest  little  silver  "Best  Collie"  cup,  went  to  The 
Place  that  night.  Setting  the  golden  monstrosity  on 
the  trophy  shelf,  the  Master  surveyed  it  for  a  mo- 
ment; then  said: 

"That  Gold  Hat  is  even  bigger  than  it  looks. 
It  is  big  enough  to  hold  a  thousand  yards  of  sur-  ' 
gical  dressings ;  and  gallons  of  medicine  and  broth, 
besides.  And  that's  what  it  is  going  to  hold.  To- 
morrow I'll  send  it  to  Vanderslice,  at  the  Red  Cross 
Headquarters." 

"Good!"  applauded  the  Mistress.  "Oh,  good! 
send  it  in  Lad's  name." 

"I  shall.  I'll  tell  Vanderslice  how  it  was  won; 
and  I'll  ask  him  to  have  it  melted  down  to  buy  hos- 
pital supplies.  If  that  doesn't  take  off  its  curse 
of  unsportsmanliness,  nothing  will.  I'll  get  you 
something  to  take  its  place,  as  a  trophy." 

But  there  was  no  need  to  redeem  that  promise.  A 
week  later,  from  Headquarters,  came  a  tiny  scarlet 
enamel  cross,  whose  silver  back  bore  the  inscrip- 
tion: 

"To  SUNNYBANK  LAD;  in  memory  of  a 
generous  gift  to  Humanity" 

"Its  face-value  is  probably  fifty  cents,  Lad, 
dear/'  commented  the  Mistress,  as  she  strung  the 
bit  of  scarlet  on  the  dog's  shaggy  throat.  "But  its 
heart  value  is  at  least  a  billion  dollars.  Besides — 
you  can  wear  it.  And  nobody,  outside  a  nightmare, 


THE  GOLD  HAT  217 

could  possibly  have  worn  kind,  good  Mr.  Hugh  Les- 
ter Maury's  Gold  Hat.  I  must  write  to  Mr.  Glure 
and  tell  him  all  about  it.  How  tickled  he'll  be  I 
Won't  he,  Laddie?" 

**$«&* 


CHAPTER  IX 
SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY 

THE  man  huddled  frowzily  in  the  tree  crotch, 
like  a  rumpled  and  sick  raccoon.    At  times 
he  would  crane  his  thin  neck  and  peer  about 
him,  but  more  as  if  he  feared  rescue  than  as  though 
he  hoped  for  it. 

Then,  before  slumping  back  to  his  sick-raccoon 
pose,  he  would  look  murderously  earthward  and 
swear  with  lurid  fervor. 

At  the  tree  foot  the  big  dog  wasted  neither  time 
nor  energy  in  frantic  barking  or  in  capering  ex- 
citedly about.  Instead,  he  lay  at  majestic  ease,  gaz- 
ing up  toward  the  treed  man  with  grave  attentive- 
ness. 

Thus,  for  a  full  half -hour,  the  two  had  re- 
mained— the  treer  and  the  treed.  Thus,  from  pres- 
ent signs,  they  would  continue  to  remain  until 
Christmas. 

There  is,  by  tradition,  something  intensely  comic 
in  the  picture  of  a  man  treed  by  a  dog.  The  man, 
in  the  present  case,  supplied  the  only  element  of 
comedy  in  the  scene.  The  dog  was  anything  but 
comic,  either  in  looks  or  in  posture. 

218 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY 

He  was  a  collie,  huge  of  bulk,  massive  of 
shoulder,  deep  and  shaggy  of  chest.  His  forepaws 
were  snowy  and  absurdly  small.  His  eyes  were  seal- 
dark  and  sorrowful — eyes  that  proclaimed  not  only 
an  uncannily  wise  brain,  but  a  soul  as  well.  In 
brief,  he  was  Lad;  official  guard  of  The  Place's 
safety. 

It  was  in  this  role  of  guard  that  he  was  now 
serving  as  jailer  to  the  man  he  had  seen  slouching 
through  the  undergrowth  of  the  forest  which  grew 
close  up  to  The  Place's  outbuildings. 

From  his  two  worshipped  deities — the  Mistress 
and  the  Master — Lad  had  learned  in  puppyhood  the 
simple  provisions  of  the  Guest  Law.  He  knew,  for 
example,  that  no  one  openly  approaching  the  house 
along  the  driveway  from  the  furlong-distant  high- 
road was  to  be  molested.  Such  a  visitor's  advent — 
especially  at  night — might  lawfully  be  greeted  by  a 
salvo  of  barks.  But  the  barks  were  a  mere  an- 
nouncement, not  a  threat. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Law  demanded  the  instant 
halting  of  all  prowlers,  or  of  anyone  seeking  to 
get  to  the  house  from  road  or  lake  by  circuitous 
and  stealthy  means.  Such  roundabout  methods 
spell  Trespass.  Every  good  watchdog  knows  that. 
But  wholly  good  watchdogs  are  far  fewer  than  most 
people — even  their  owners — realize.  Lad  was  one 
of  the  few. 

To-day's  trespasser  had  struck  into  The  Place's 
grounds  from  an  adjoining  bit  of  woodland.  He 


220  LAD:    A  DOG 

had  moved  softly  and  obliquely  and  had  made  little 
furtive  dashes  from  one  bit  of  cover  to  another, 
as  he  advanced  toward  the  outbuildings  a  hundred 
yards  north  of  the  house. 

He  had  moved  cleverly  and  quietly.  No  human 
had  seen  or  heard  him.  Even  Lad,  sprawling  half- 
asleep  on  the  veranda,  had  not  seen  him.  For,  in 
spite  of  theory,  a  dog's  eye  by  daylight  is  not  so 
keen  or  so  far-seeing  as  is  a  human's.  But  the 
wind  had  brought  news  of  a  foreign  presence  on 
The  Place — a  presence  which  Lad's  hasty  glance  at 
driveway  and  lake  edge  did  not  verify. 

So  the  dog  had  risen  to  his  feet,  stretched  him- 
self, collie-fashion,  fore  and  aft,  and  trotted  quickly 
away  to  investigate.  Scent,  and  then  sound,  taught 
him  which  way  to  go. 

Two  minutes  later  he  changed  his  wolf  trot  to 
a  slow  and  unwontedly  stiff-legged  walk,  advancing 
with  head  lowered,  and  growling  softly  far  down 
in  his  throat.  He  was  making  straight  for  a  patch 
of  sumac,  ten  feet  in  front  of  him  and  a  hundred 
feet  behind  the  stables. 

Now,  when  a  dog  bounds  toward  a  man,  bark- 
ing and  with  head  up,  there  is  nothing  at  all  to  be 
feared  from  his  approach.  But  when  the  pace 
slackens  to  a  stiff  walk  and  his  head  sinks  low,  that 
is  a  very  good  time,  indeed,  for  the  object  of  his 
attentions  to  think  seriously  of  escape  or  of  defense. 

Instinct  or  experience  must  have  imparted  this 
useful  truth  to  the  lurker  in  the  sumac  patch,  for 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY 

as  the  great  dog  drew  near  the  man  incontinently 
wheeled  and  broke  cover.  At  the  same  instant  Lad 
charged. 

The  man  had  a  ten-foot  start.  This  vantage  he 
utilized  by  flinging  himself  bodily  at  a  low-forked 
hickory  tree  directly  in  his  path. 

Up  the  rough  trunk  to  the  crotch  he  shinned  with 
the  speed  of  a  chased  cat.  Lad  arrived  at  the  tree 
bole  barely  in  time  to  collect  a  mouthful  of  cloth 
from  the  climber's  left  trouser  ankle. 

After  which,  since  he  was  not  of  the  sort  to 
clamor  noisily  for  what  lurked  beyond  his  reach, 
the  dog  yawned  and  lay  down  to  keep  guard  on 
his  arboreal  prisoner.  For  half  an  hour  he  lay 
thus,  varying  his  vigil  once  or  twice  by  sniffing 
thoughtfully  at  a  ragged  scrap  of  trouser  cloth  be- 
tween his  little  white  forepaws.  He  sniffed  the 
thing  as  though  trying  to  commit  its  scent  tP» 
memory. 

The  man  did  not  seek  help  by  shouting.  Instead, 
he  seemed  oddly  willing  that  no  other  human 
should  intrude  on  his  sorry  plight.  A  single  loud 
yell  would  have  brought  aid  from  the  stables  or 
from  the  house  or  even  from  the  lodge  up  by  the 
gate.  Yet,  though  the  man  must  have  guessed  this, 
he  did  not  yell.  Instead,  he  cursed  whisperingly  at 
intervals  and  snarled  at  his  captor. 

At  last,  his  nerve  going,  the  prisoner  drew  out 
a  jackknife,  opened  a  blade  at  each  end  of  it  and 
hurled  the  ugly  missile  with  all  his  force  at  the  dog. 


LAD:    A  DOG 

As  the  man  had  shifted  his  position  to  get  at  the 
knife,  Lad  had  risen  expectantly  to  his  feet  with 
some  hope  that  his  captive  might  be  going  to 
descend. 

It  was  lucky  for  Lad  that  he  was  standing  when 
the  knife  was  thrown  for  the  aim  was  not  bad,  and 
a  dog  lying  down  cannot  easily  dodge.  A  dog 
standing  on  all  fours  is  different,  especially  if  he 
is  a  collie. 

Lad  sprang  to  one  side  instinctively  as  the 
thrower's  arm  went  back.  The  knife  whizzed, 
harmless,  into  the  sumac  patch.  Lad's  teeth  bared 
themselves  in  something  that  looked  like  a  smile 
and  was  not.  Then  he  lay  down  again  on  guard. 

A  minute  later  he  was  up  with  a  jump.  From 
the  direction  of  the  house  came  a  shrill  whistle 
followed  by  a  shout  of  "Lad!  La-ad!" 

It  was  the  Master  calling  him.  The  summons 
could  not  be  ignored.  Usually  it  was  obeyed  with 
eager  gladness,  but  now — Lad  looked  worriedly 
up  into  the  tree.  Then,  coming  to  a  decision,  he 
galloped  away  at  top  speed. 

In  ten  seconds  he  was  at  the  veranda  where  the 
Master  stood  talking  with  a  newly  arrived  guest. 
Before  the  Master  could  speak  to  the  dog,  Lad 
rushed  up  to  him,  whimpering  in  stark  appeal,  then 
ran  a  few  steps  toward  the  stables,  paused,  looked 
back  and  whimpered  again. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  loudly  demanded 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY 

the  guest — an  obese  and  elderly  man,  right  sportily 
attired.  "What  ails  the  silly  dog?'* 

"He's  found  something,"  said  the  Master. 
"Something  he  wants  me  to  come  and  see — and  he 
wants  me  to  come  in  a  hurry." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  the  guest. 

"Because  I  know  his  language  as  well  as  he  knows 
mine,"  retorted  the  Master. 

He  set  off  in  the  wake  of  the  excited  dog.  The 
guest  followed  in  more  leisurely  fashion  complain- 
ing: 

"Of  all  the  idiocy!  To  let  a  measly  dog  drag 
you  out  of  the  shade  on  a  red-hot  day  like  this 
just  to  look  at  some  dead  chipmunk  he's  found !" 

"Perhaps,"  stiffly  agreed  the  Master,  not  slack- 
ening his  pace.  "But  if  Lad  behaves  like  that, 
unless  it's  pretty  well  worth  while,  he's  changed  a 
lot  in  the  past  hour.  A  man  can  do  worse  some- 
times than  follow  a  tip  his  dog  gives  him." 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  grinned  the  guest. 
"Perhaps  he  may  lead  us  to  a  treasure  cave  or  to 
a  damsel  in  distress.  I'm  with  you." 

"Guy  me  if  it  amuses  you,"  said  the  Master. 

"It  does,"  his  guest  informed  him.  "It  amuses 
me  to  see  any  grown  man  think  so  much  of  a  dog 
as  you  people  think  of  Lad.  It's  maudlin." 

"My  house  is  the  only  one  within  a  mile  on  this 
side  of  the  lake  that  has  never  been  robbed,"  was 
the  Master's  reply.  "My  stable  is  the  only  one  in 
the  same  radius  that  hasn't  been  rifled  by  harness- 


224  LAD:    A  DOG 

and-tire  thieves.  Thieves  who  seem  to  do  their 
work  in  broad  daylight,  too,  when  the  stables 
won't  be  locked.  I  have  Lad  to  thank  for  all  that. 
He " 

The  dog  had  darted  far  ahead.  Now  he  was 
standing  beneath  a  low- forked  hickory  tree  staring 
up  into  it. 

"He's  treed  a  cat !"  guffawed  the  guest,  his  laugh 
as  irritating  as  a  kick.  "Extra !  Come  out  and  get 
a  nice  sunstroke,  folks !  Come  and  see  the  cat  Lad 
has  treed!" 

The  Master  did  not  answer.  There  was  no  cat 
in  the  tree.  There  was  nothing  visible  in  the  tree. 
Lad's  aspect  shrank  from  hope  to  depression.  He 
looked  apologetically  at  the  Master.  Then  he  be- 
gan to  sniff  once  more  at  a  scrap  of  cloth  on  the 
ground. 

The  Master  picked  up  the  cloth  and  presently 
walked  over  to  the  tree.  From  a  jut  of  bark 
dangled  a  shred  of  the  same  cloth.  The  Master's 
hand  went  to  Lad's  head  in  approving  caress. 

"It  was  not  a  cat,"  he  said.  "It  was  a  man. 
See  the  rags  of " 

"Oh,  piffle !"  snorted  the  guest.  "Next  you'll  be 
reconstructing  the  man's  middle  name  and  favorite 
perfume  from  the  color  of  the  bark  on  the  tree. 
You  people  are  always  telling  about  wonderful 
stunts  of  Lad's.  And  that's  all  the  evidence  there 
generally  is  to  it." 

"No,  Mr.  Glure,"  denied  th«  Master,  taking  a 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY        225 

strangle  hold  on  his  temper.  "No.  That's  not 
quite  all  the  evidence  that  we  have  for  our  brag 
about  Lad.  For  instance,  we  had  the  evidence  of 
your  own  eyes  when  he  herded  that  flock  of 
stampeded  prize  sheep  for  you  last  spring,  and  of 
your  own  eyes  again  when  he  won  the  'Gold  Hat' 
cup  at  the  Labor  Day  Dog  Show.  No,  there's 
plenty  of  evidence  that  Lad  is  worth  his  salt.  Let 
it  go  at  that.  Shall  we  get  back  to  the  house?  It's 
fairly  cool  on  the  veranda.  By  the  way,  what  was 
it  you  wanted  me  to  call  Lad  for?  You  asked  to 
see  him.  And " 

"Why,  here's  the  idea,"  explained  Glure,  as  they 
made  their  way  through  the  heat  back  to  the  shade 
of  the  porch.  "It's  what  I  drove  over  here  to  talk, 
with  you  about.  I'm  making  the  rounds  of  all  this 
region.  And,  say,  I  didn't  ask  to  see  Lad.  I  asked 
if  you  still  had  him.  I  asked  because " 

"Oh,"  apologized  the  Master.  "I  thought  you 
wanted  to  see  him.  Most  people  ask  to  if  he 
doesn't  happen  to  be  round  when  they  call. 
We " 

"I  asked  you  if  you  still  had  him,"  expounded 
Mr.  Glure,  "because  I  hoped  you  hadn't.  I  hoped 
you  were  more  of  a  patriot." 

"Patriot?"  echoed  the  Master,  puzzled. 

"Yes.  That's  why  I'm  making  this  tour  of  the 
country:  to  rouse  dog  owners  to  a  sense  of  their 
duty.  I've  just  formed  a  local  branch  of  the  Food 
Conservation  League  and " 


226  LAD:    A  DOG 

"It's  a  splendid  organization,"  warmly  approved 
the  Master,  "but  what  have  dog  owners  to " 

"To  do  with  it?"  supplemented  Glure.  "They 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  more's  the  pity.  But 
they  ought  to.  That's  why  I  volunteered  to  make 
this  canvass.  It  was  my  own  idea.  Some  of  the 
others  were  foolish  enough  to  object,  but  as  I  had 
founded  and  financed  this  Hampton  branch  of  the 
League " 

"What  'canvass'  are  you  talking  about?"  asked 
the  Master,  who  was  far  too  familiar  with  Glure's 
ways  to  let  the  man  become  fairly  launched  on  a 
paean  of  self-adulation.  "You  say  it's  'to  rouse 
dog  owners  to  a  sense  of  their  duty.'  Along  what 
line?  We  dog  men  have  raised  a  good  many 
thousand  dollars  this  past  year  by  our  Red  Cross 
shows  and  by  our  subscriptions  to  all  sorts  of  war 
funds.  The  Blue  Cross,  too,  and  the  Collie  Am- 
bulance Fund  have " 

"This  is  something  better  than  the  mere  giving 
of  surplus  coin,"  broke  in  Glure.  "It  is  something 
that  involves  sacrifice.  A  needful  sacrifice  for  our 
country.  A  sacrifice  that  may  win  the  war." 

"Count  me  in  on  it,  then!"  cordially  approved 
the  Master.  "Count  in  all  real  dog  men.  What 
is  the  'sacrifice'?" 

"It's  my  own  idea,"  modestly  boasted  Glure, 
adding:  "That  is,  of  course,  it's  been  agitated  by 
other  people  in  letters  to  newspapers  and  all  that, 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY         227 

but  I'm  the  first  to  go  out  and  put  it  into  actual 
effect." 

"Shoot!"  suggested  the  weary  Master. 

"That's  the  very  word!"  exclaimed  Glure. 
"That's  the  very  thing  I  want  dog  owners  to  com- 
bine in  doing.  To  shoot!" 

"To— what?" 

"To  shoot — or  poison — or  asphyxiate,"  ex- 
pounded Glure,  warming  to  his  theme.  "In  short, 
to  get  rid  of  every  dog." 

The  Master's  jaw  swung  ajar  and  his  eyes  bulged. 
His  face  began  to  assume  an  unbecoming  bricky 
hue.  Glure  went  on: 

"You  see,  neighbor,  our  nation  is  up  against  it. 
When  war  was  declared  last  month  it  found  us 
unprepared.  We've  got  to  pitch  in  and  economize. 
Every  mouthful  of  food  wasted  here  is  a  new  lease 
of  life  to  the  Kaiser.  We're  cutting  down  on  sugar 
and  meat  and  fat,  but  for  every  cent  we  save  that 
way  we're  throwing  away  a  dollar  in  feeding  our 
dogs.  Our  dogs  that  are  a  useless,  senseless,  costly 
luxury!  They  serve  no  utilitarian  end.  They  eat 
food  that  belongs  to  soldiers.  I'm  trying  to 
brighten  the  corner  where  I  am  by  persuading  my 
neighbors  to  get  rid  of  their  dogs.  When  I've 
proved  what  a  blessing  it  is  I'm  going  to  inaugurate 
a  nation-wide  campaign  from  California  to  New 
York,  from " 

"Hold  on!"  snapped  the  Master,  finding  some  of 
his  voice  and,  in  the  same  effort,  mislaying  much 


228  LAD:    A  DOG 

of  his  temper.  "What  wall-eyed  idiocy  do  you 
think  you're  trying  to  talk?  How  many  dog  men 
do  you  expect  to  convert  to  such  a  crazy  doctrine? 
Have  you  tried  any  others?  Or  am  I  the  first 
mark?" 

"I'm  sorry  you  take  it  this  way/'  reproved  Glure. 
"I  had  hoped  you  were  more  broad-minded,  but 
you  are  as  pig-headed  as  the  rest." 

"The  'rest/  hey?"  the  Master  caught  him  up. 
'The  'rest?'  Then  I'm  not  the  first?  I'm  glad 
they  had  sense  enough  to  send  you  packing." 

"They  were  blind  animal  worshipers,  both  of 
them/'  said  Glure  aggrievedly,  "just  as  you  are. 
One  of  them  yelled  something  after  me  that  I  sin- 
cerely hope  I  didn't  hear  aright.  If  I  did,  I  have 
a  strong  action  for  slander  against  him.  The  other 
chucklehead  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  threaten 
t©  take  a  shotgun  to  me  if  I  didn't  get  off  his  land." 

"I'm  sorry!"  sighed  the  Master.  "For  both  of 
them  seem  to  have  covered  the  ground  so  com- 
pletely that  there  isn't  anything  unique  for  me  to 
say — or  do.  Now  listen  to  me  for  two  minutes. 
I've  read  a  few  of  those  anti-dog  letters  in  the 
newspapers,  but  you're  the  first  person  I've  met  in 
real  life  who  backs  such  rot.  And  I'm  going " 

"It  is  not  a  matter  for  argument,"  loftily  began 
Glure. 

"Yes  it  is,"  asserted  the  Master.  "Everything 
is,  except  religion  and  love  and  toothache.  You 
say  dogs  ought  to  be  destroyed  as  a  patriotic  duty 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY 

because  they  aren't  utilitarian.  There's  where 
you're  wrong  at  the  very  beginning.  Dead  wrong. 
I'm  not  talking  about  the  big  kennels  where  one 
man  keeps  a  hundred  dogs  as  he'd  herd  so  many 
prize  hogs.  Though  look  what  the  owners  of  such 
kennels  did  for  the  country  at  the  last  New  York 
show  at  Madison  Square  Garden!  Every  penny 
of  the  thousands  and  thousands  of  dollars  in  profits 
from  the  show  went  to  the  Red  Cross.  I'm  speak- 
ing of  the  man  who  keeps  one  dog  or  two  or  even 
three  dogs,  and  keeps  them  as  pets.  I'm  speaking 
of  myself,  if  you  like.  Do  you  know  what  it  costs 
me  per  week  to  feed  my  dogs?" 

"I'm  not  looking  for  statistics  in " 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Few  fanatics  are.  Well,  I 
figured  it  out  a  few  weeks  ago,  after  I  read  one 
of  those  anti-dog  letters.  The  total  upkeep  of  all 
my  dogs  averages  just  under  a  dollar  a  week.  A 
bare  fifty  dollars  a  year.  That's  true.  And " 

"And  that  fifty  dollars,"  interposed  Glure 
eagerly,  "would  pay  for  a  soldier's " 

"It  would  not!"  contradicted  the  Master,  trying 
to  keep  some  slight  grip  on  his  sliding  temper. 
"But  I  can  tell  you  what  it  would  do:  Part  of  it 
would  go  for  burglar  insurance,  which  I  don't  need 
now,  because  no  stranger  dares  to  sneak  up  to  my 
house  at  night.  Part  of  it  would  go  to  make  up 
for  things  stolen  around  The  Place.  For  instance, 
in  the  harness  room  of  my  stable  there  are  five  sets 
of  good  harness  and  two  or  three  extra  automobile 


230  LAD:    A  DOG 

tires.  Unless  I'm  very  much  mistaken,  the  best 
of  those  would  be  gone  now  if  Lad  hadn't  just 
treed  the  man  who  was  after  them." 

"Pshaw!"  exploded  Glure  in  fine  scorn.  "We 
saw  no  man  there.  There  was  no  proof  of " 

"There  was  proof  enough  for  me,"  continued 
the  Master.  "And  if  Lad  hadn't  scented  the 
fellow  one  of  the  other  dogs  would.  As  I  told 
you,  mine  is  the  only  house — and  mine  is  the  only 
stable — on  this  side  of  the  lake  that  has  never 
been  looted.  Mine  is  the  only  orchard — and  mine 
is  the  only  garden — that  is  never  robbed.  And 
this  is  the  only  place,  on  our  side  of  the  lake,  where 
dogs  are  kept  at  large  for  twelve  months  of  the 
year.  My  dogs'  entry  fees  at  Red  Cross  shows 
have  more  than  paid  for  their  keep,  and  those  fees 
went  straight  to  charity." 

"But—5" 

"The  women  of  my  family  are  as  safe  here,  day 
and  night,  as  if  I  had  a  machine-gun  company 
on  guard.  That  assurance  counts  for  more  than 
a  little,  in  peace  of  mind,  back  here  in  the  North 
Jersey  hinterland.  I'm  not  taking  into  account 
the  several  other  ways  the  dogs  bring  in  cash  in- 
come to  us.  Not  even  the  cash  Lad  turned  over 
to  the  Red  Cross  when  we  sent  that  $1600  'Gold 
Hat'  cup  he  won,  to  be  melted  down.  And  I'm 
not  speaking  of  our  dogs'  comradeship,  and  what 
that  means  to  us.  Our  dogs  are  an  asset  in  every 
way — not  a  liability.  They  aren't  deadheads  either. 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY        231 

For  I  pay  the  state  tax  on  them  every  year. 
They're  true,  loyal,  companionable  chums,  and 
they* re  an  ornament  to  The  Place  as  well  as  its 
best  safeguard.  All  in  return  for  table  scraps  and 
skim  milk  and  less  than  a  weekly  dollar's  worth 
of  stale  bread  and  cast-off  butcher-shop  bones. 
Where  do  you  figure  out  the  'saving*  for  the  war 
chest  if  I  got  rid  of  them?" 

"As  I  said,"  repeated  Glure  with  cold  austerity, 
"it's  not  a  matter  for  argument.  I  came  here  hop- 
ing to " 

"I'm  not  given  to  mawkish  sentiment,"  went  on 
the  Master  shamefacedly,  "but  on  the  day  your 
fool  law  for  dog  exterminating  goes  into  effect 
there'll  be  a  piteous  crying  of  little  children  all 
over  the  whole  world — of  little  children  mourning 
for  the  gentle  protecting  playmates  they  loved. 
And  there'll  be  a  million  men  and  women  whose 
lives  have  all  at  once  become  lonely  and  empty  and 
miserable.  Isn't  this  war  causing  enough  crying 
and  loneliness  and'  misery  without  your  adding  to 
it  by  killing  our  dogs?  For  the  matter  of  that, 
haven't  the  army  dogs  over  in  Europe  been  doing 
enough  for  mankind  to  warrant  a  square  deal  for 
their  stay-at-home  brothers?  Haven't  they?" 

"That's  a  mass  of  sentimental  bosh,"  declared 
Glure.  "All  of  it." 

"It  is,"  willingly  confessed  the  Master.  "So  are 
most  of  the  worth-while  things  in  life,  if  you  re- 
duce them  to  their  lowest  terms." 


232  LAD:    A  DOG 

"You  know  what  a  fine  group  of  dogs  I  had," 
said  Glure,  starting  off  on  a  new  tack.  "I  had  a 
group  that  cost  me,  dog  for  dog,  more  than  any 
other  kennel  in  the  state.  Grand  dogs  too.  You 
remember  my  wonderful  Merle,  for  instance, 
and " 

"And  your  rare  'Prussian  sheep  dog' — or  was  it 
a  prune-hound? — that  a  Chicago  man  sold  to  you 
for  $1100,"  supplemented  the  Master,  swallowing 
a  grin.  "I  remember.  I  remember  them  all. 
What  then?" 

"Well,"  resumed  Glure,  "no  one  can  accuse  me 
of  not  practicing  what  I  preach.  I  began  this 
splendid  campaign  by  getting  rid  of  every  dog  I 
owned.  So  I " 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  Master.  "I  read  all  about 
that  last  month  in  your  local  paper.  Distemper  had 
run  through  your  kennel,  and  you  tried  doctoring 
the  dogs  on  a  theory  of  your  own  instead  of  send- 
ing for  a  vet.  So  they  all  died.  Tough  luck  f  Or 
perhaps  you  got  rid  of  them  that  way  on  purpose? 
For  the  good  of  the  Cause?  I'm  sorry  about  the 
Merle.  He  was " 

"I  see  there's  no  use  talking  to  you,"  sighed 
Glure  in  disgust,  ponderously  rising  and  waddling 
toward  his  car.  "I'm  disappointed ;  because  I  hoped 
you  were  less  bone-brained  and  more  patriotic  than 
these  yokels  round  here." 

"I'm  not,"  cheerily  conceded  the  Master.  "I'm 
not,  I'm  glad  to  say.  Not  a  bit." 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY         233 

"Then,"  pursued  Glure,  climbing  into  the  car, 
''since  you  feel  that  way  about  it,  I  suppose  there's 
no  use  asking  you  to  come  to  the  little  cattle  show 
I'm  organizing  for  week  after  next,  because  that's 
for  the  Food  Conservation  League  too.  And  since 
you're  so  out  of  sympathy  with " 

"I'm  not  out  of  sympathy  with  the  League,"  as- 
serted the  Master.  "Its  card  is  in  our  kitchen 
window.  We've  signed  its  pledge  and  we're  boost- 
ing it  in  every  way  we  know  how,  except  by  killing 
our  dogs;  and  that's  no  part  of  the  League's  pro- 
gramme, as  you  know  very  well.  Tell  me  more 
about  the  cattle  show." 

"It's  a  neighborhood  affair,"  said  Glure  sulkily, 
yet  eager  to  secure  any  possible  entrants.  "Just 
a  bunch  of  home-raised  cattle.  Cup  and  rosette 
for  best  of  each  recognized  breed,  and  the  usual 
ribbons  for  second  and  third.  Three  dollars  an 
entry.  Only  one  class  for  each  breed.  Every  en- 
trant must  have  been  raised  by  the  exhibitor. 
Gate  admission  fifty  cents.  Red  Cross  to  get  the 
gross  proceeds.  I've  offered  the  use  of  my  south 
meadow  at  Glure  Towers — just  as  I  did  for  the 
specialty  dog  show.  I've  put  up  a  hundred  dollars 
toward  the  running  expenses  too.  Micklesen's  to 
judge." 

"I  don't  go  in  for  stock  raising,"  said  the  Master. 
"My  little  Alderney  heifer  is  the  only  head  of 
quality  stock  I  ever  bred.  I  doubt  if  she  is  worth 
taking  up  there,  but  I'll  be  glad  to  take  her  if  only 


234  LAD:    A  DOG 

to  swell  the  competition  list.     Send  me  a  blank, 
please." 

Lad  trotted  dejectedly  back  to  the  house  as 
Glure's  car  chugged  away  up  the  drive.  Lad  was 
glumly  unhappy.  He  had  had  no  trouble  at  all  in 
catching  the  scent  of  the  man  he  had  treed.  He 
had  followed  the  crashingly  made  trail  through 
undergrowth  and  woodland  until  it  had  emerged 
into  the  highroad. 

And  there,  perforce,  Lad  had  paused.  For, 
taught  from  puppyhood,  he  knew  the  boundaries 
of  The  Place  as  well  as  did  the  Mistress  or  the 
Master,  and  he  knew  equally  well  that  his  own 
jurisdiction  ended  at  those  boundaries.  Beyond 
them  he  might  not  chase  even  the  most  loathed  in- 
truder. The  highroad  was  sanctuary. 

Wherefore  at  the  road  edge  he  stopped  and 
turned  slowly  back.  His  pursuit  was  ended,  but 
not  his  anger,  nor  his  memory  of  the  marauder's 
scent.  The  man  had  trespassed  slyly  on  The  Place. 
He  had  gotten  away  unpunished.  These  things 
rankled  in  the  big  dog's  mind.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  pretty  little  cattle  show  and  staged  in 
a  pretty  setting  withal — at  Glure  Towers,  two 
weeks  later.  The  big  sunken  meadow  on  the  verge 
of  the  Ramapo  River  was  lined  on  two  sides  with 
impromptu  sheds.  The  third  side  was  blocked  by 
something  between  a  grand  stand  and  a  marquee. 
The  tree-hung  river  bordered  the  fourth  side.  In  the 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY         235 

field's  center  was  the  roped-off  judging  inclosure 
into  which  the  cattle,  class  by  class,  were  to  be  led. 

Above  the  pastoral  scene  brooded  the  archi- 
tectural crime,  known  as  The  Towers — homestead 
and  stronghold  of  Hamilcar  Q.  Glure,  Esquire. 

Glure  had  made  much  money  in  Wall  Street — 
a  crooked  little  street  that  begins  with  a  grave- 
yard and  ends  in  a  river.  Having  waxed  inde- 
cently rich,  he  had  erected  for  himself  a  hideously 
expensive  estate  among  the  Ramapo  Mountains 
and  had  settled  down  to  the  task  of  patronizing 
his  rural  neighbors.  There  he  elected  to  be  known 
as  the  "Wall  Street  Farmer,"  a  title  that  delighted 
not  only  himself  but  everyone  else  in  the  region. 

There  was,  in  this  hinterland  stretch,  a  friendly 
and  constant  rivalry  among  the  natives  and  other 
old  residents  in  the  matter  of  stock  raising.  Horses, 
cattle,  pigs,  chickens,  even  a  very  few  sheep  were 
bred  for  generations  along  lines  which  their  divers 
owners  had  laid  out — lines  which  those  owners 
fervently  believed  must  some  day  produce  per- 
fection. 

Each  owner  or  group  of  owners  had  his  own 
special  ideas  as  to  the  best  way  to  produce  this 
super-stock  result.  The  local  stock  shows  formed 
the  only  means  of  proving  or  disproving  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  varied  theories.  Hence  these  shows 
were  looked  upon  as  barnyard  supreme  courts. 

Mr.  Glure  had  begun  his  career  in  the  neighbor- 
hood with  a  laudable  aim  of  excelling  everybody 


236  LAD:    A  DOG 

else  in  everything.  He  had  gone,  heart  and  soul, 
into  stock  producing  and  as  he  had  no  breeding 
theories  of  his  own  he  proceeded  to  acquire  a  set. 
As  it  would  necessarily  take  years  to  work  out 
these  beliefs,  he  bridged  the  gap  neatly  by  pur- 
chasing and  importing  prize  livestock  and  by  enter- 
ing it  against  the  home-raised  products  of  his 
neighbors. 

Strangely  enough,  this  did  not  add  to  the  popu- 
larity which  he  did  not  possess.  Still  more 
strangely,  it  did  not  add  materially  to  his  prestige 
as  an  exhibitor,  for  the  judges  had  an  exasper- 
ating way  of  handing  him  a  second  or  third  prize 
ribbon  and  then  of  awarding  the  coveted  blue 
rosette  to  the  owner  and  breeder  of  some  local 
exhibit. 

After  a  long  time  it  began  to  dawn  upon  Glure 
that  narrow  neighborhood  prejudice  deemed  it  un- 
sportsmanlike to  buy  prize  stock  and  exhibit  it  as 
one's  own.  At  approximately  the  same  time  three 
calves  were  born  to  newly  imported  prize  cows  in 
the  two-acre  model  barns  of  Glure  Towers,  and 
with  them  was  born  Glure's  newest  idea. 

No  one  could  deny  he  had  bred  these  calves  him- 
self. They  were  born  on  his  own  place  and  of 
his  own  high-pedigreed  cattle.  Three  breeds  were 
represented  among  the  trio  of  specimens.  By 
points  and  by  lineage  they  were  well-nigh  peerless. 
Wherefore  the  plan  for  a  show  of  neighborhood 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY        237 

"home-raised"  cattle.  At  length  Glure  felt  he  was 
coming  into  his  own. 

The  hinterland  folk  had  fought  shy  of  Glure 
since  the  dog  show  wherein  he  had  sought  to  win 
the  capital  prize  by  formulating  a  set  of  conditions 
that  could  be  filled  by  no  entrant  except  a  newly 
imported  champion  Merle  of  his  own. 

But  the  phrase  "home-raised"  now  proved  a  bait 
that  few  of  the  region's  stock  lovers  could  resist; 
and  on  the  morning  of  the  show  no  fewer  than 
fifty-two  cattle  of  standard  breeds  were  shuffling 
or  lowing  in  the  big  impromptu  sheds. 

A  farm  hand,  the  day  before,  had  led  to  the 
show  ground  The  Place's  sole  entrant — the  pretty 
little  Alderney  heifer  of  which  the  Master  had 
spoken  to  Glure  and  which,  by  the  way,  was  des- 
tined to  win  nothing  higher  than  a  third-prize 
ribbon. 

For  that  matter,  to  end  the  suspense,  the  best 
of  the  three  Glure  calves  won  only  a  second  prize, 
all  the  first  for  their  three  breeds  going  to  two 
nonplutocratic  North  Jerseymen  who  had  bred  the 
ancestors  of  their  entrants  for  six  generations. 

The  Mistress  and  the  Master  motored  over  to 
Glure  Towers  on  the  morning  of  the  show  in  their 
one  car.  Lad  went  with  them.  He  always  went 
with  them. 

Not  that  any  dog  could  hope  to  find  interest  in 
a  cattle  show,  but  a  dog  would  rather  go  anywhere 
with  his  Master  than  to  stay  at  home  without  him. 


238  LAD:    A  DOG 

Witness  the  glad  alacrity  wherewith  the  weariest 
dog  deserts  a  snug  fireside  in  the  vilest  weather  for 
the  joy  of  a  master-accompanying  walk. 

A  tire  puncture  delayed  the  trip.  The  show  was 
about  to  begin  when  the  car  was  at  last  parked 
behind  the  sunken  meadow.  The  Mistress  and  the 
Master,  with  Lad  at  their  heels,  started  across  the 
meadow  afoot  toward  the  well-filled  grand-stand. 

Several  acquaintances  in  the  stand  waved  to  them 
as  they  advanced.  Also,  before  they  had  traversed 
more  than  half  the  meadow's  area  their  host  bore 
down  upon  them. 

Mr.  Glure  (dressed,  as  usual,  for  the  Occasion) 
looked  like  a  blend  of  Landseer's  "Edinburgh 
Drover"  and  a  theater-program  picture  of  "What 
the  Man  Will  Wear." 

He  had  been  walking  beside  a  garishly  liveried 
groom  who  was  leading  an  enormous  Holstein 
bull  toward  the  judging  enclosure.  The  bull  was 
steered  by  a  five- foot  bar,  the  end  snapped  to  a 
ring  in  his  nose. 

"Hello,  good  people !"  Mr.  Glure  boomed,  pump- 
handling  the  unenthusiastic  Mistress'  right  hand 
and  bestowing  a  jarringly  annoying  slap  upon  the 
Master's  shoulder.  "Glad  to  see  you !  You're  late. 
Almost  too  late  for  the  best  part  of  the  show. 
Before  judging  begins,  I'm  having  some  of  my 
choicest  European  stock  paraded  in  the  ring.  Just 
for  exhibition,  you  know.  Not  for  a  contest.  I 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY         239 

like  to  give  a  treat  to  some  of  these  farmers  who 
think  they  know  how  to  breed  cattle." 

"Yes?"  queried  the  Master,  who  could  think  of 
nothing  cleverer  to  say. 

"Take  that  bull,  Tenebris,  of  mine,  for  instance," 
proclaimed  Glure,  with  a  wave  toward  the  ap- 
proaching Holstein  and  his  guide.  "Best  ton  of 

livestock  that  ever  stood  on  four  legs.     Look  how 

I  » 

Glure  paused  in  his  lecture  for  he  saw  that  both 
the  Mistress  and  the  Master  were  staring,  not  at 
the  bull,  but  at  the  beast's  leader.  The  spectacle 
of  a  groom  in  gaudy  livery,  on  duty  at  a  cattle 
show,  was  all  but  too  much  for  their  gravity. 

"You're  looking  at  that  boy  of  mine,  hey? 
Fine,  well-set-up  chap,  isn't  he?  A  faithful  boy. 
Devoted  to  me.  Slavishly  devoted.  Not  like  most 
of  these  grumpy,  independent  Jersey  rustics.  Not 
much.  He's  a  treasure,  Winston  is.  Used  to  be 
chief  handler  for  some  of  the  biggest  cattle  breed- 
ers in  the  East  he  tells  me.  I  got  hold  of  him  by 
chance,  and  just  by  the  sheerest  good  luck,  a  week 
or  so  ago.  Met  him  on  the  road  and  he  asked  for 
a  lift.  He " 

It  was  then  that  Lad  disgraced  himself  and  his 
deities,  and  proved  himself  all  unworthy  to  appear 
in  so  refined  an  assembly.  The  man  in  livery  had 
convoyed  the  bull  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
proudly  exhorting  Glure.  Now,  without  growl  or 


240  LAD:    A  DOG 

other  sign  of  warning,  the  hitherto  peaceable  dog 
changed  into  a  murder  machine. 

In  a  single  mighty  bound  he  cleared  the  narrow- 
ing distance  between  himself  and  the  advancing 
groom. 

The  leap  sent  him  hurtling  through  the  air,  an 
eighty-pound  furry  catapult,  straight  for  the  man's 
throat. 

Over  and  beyond  the  myriad  cattle  odors,  Lad 
had  suddenly  recognized  a  scent  that  spelt  deathless 
hatred.  The  scent  had  been  verified  by  a  single 
glance  at  the  brilliantly  clad  man  in  livery.  Where- 
fore the  mad  charge. 

The  slashing  jaws  missed  their  mark  in  the  man's 
throat  by  a  bare  half  inch.  That  they  missed  it 
at  all  was  because  the  man  also  recognized  Lad, 
and  shrank  back  in  mortal  terror. 

Even  before  the  eighty-pound  weight,  smashing 
against  his  chest,  sent  the  groom  sprawling  back- 
ward to  the  ground,  Lad's  slashing  jaws  had  found 
a  hold  in  place  of  the  one  they  had  missed. 

This  grip  was  on  the  liveried  shoulder,  into  which 
the  fangs  sank  to  their  depth.  Down  went  the  man, 
screaming,  the  dog  atop  of  him. 

"Lad!"  cried  the  Mistress,  aghast.     "Lad!" 

Through  the  avenging  rage  that  misted  his  brain 
the  great  dog  heard.  With  a  choking  sound  that 
was  almost  a  sob  he  relinquished  his  hold  and  turned 
slowly  from  his  prey. 

The  Master  and  Glure  instinctively  took  a  step 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY        241 

toward  the  approaching  dog  and  the  writhingly 
prostrate  man.  Then,  still  more  instinctively,  and 
without  even  coming  to  a  standstill  before  going 
into  reverse,  they  both  sprang  back.  They  would 
have  sprung  further  had  not  the  roped  walls  of  the 
show  ring  checked  them. 

For  Tenebris  had  taken  a  sudden  and  active  part 
in  the  scene. 

The  gigantic  Holstein  during  his  career  in 
Europe  had  trebly  won  his  title  to  champion.  And 
during  the  three  years  before  his  exportation  to 
America  he  had  gored  to  death  no  fewer  than  three 
over-confident  stable  attendants.  The  bull's  homi- 
cidal temper,  no  less  than  the  dazzling  price  offered 
by  Glure,  had  caused  his  owner  to  sell  him  to  the 
transatlantic  bidder. 

A  bull's  nose  is  the  tenderest  spot  of  his  anatomy. 
Next  to  his  eyes,  he  guards  its  safety  most  zealously. 
Thus,  with  a  stout  leading-bar  between  him  and  his 
conductor,  Tenebris  was  harmless  enough. 

But  the  conductor  just  now  had  let  go  of  that 
bar,  as  Lad's  weight  had  smitten  him.  Freed,  Tene- 
bris had  stood  for  an  instant  in  perplexity. 

Fiercely  he  flung  his  gnarled  head  to  one  side 
to  see  the  cause  of  the  commotion.  The  gesture 
swung  the  heavy  leading-bar,  digging  the  nose  ring 
cruelly  into  his  sensitive  nostrils.  The  pain  mad- 
dened Tenebris.  A  final  plunging  twist  of  the  head 
— and  the  bar's  weight  tore  the  nose  ring  free  from 
the  nostrils. 


LAD:^A  DOG* 

Tenebris  bellowed  thunderously  at  the  climax  of 
pain.  Then  he  realized  he  had  shaken  off  the  only 
thing  that  gave  humans  a  control  over  him.  A  sec- 
ond bellow — a  furious  pawing  of  the  earth — and 
the  bull  lowered  his  head.  His  evil  eyes  glared 
about  him  in  search  of  something  to  kill. 

It  was  the  sight  of  this  motion  which  sent  the 
Master  and  Glure  recoiling  against  the  show-ring 
ropes. 

In  almost  the  same  move  the  Master  caught  up 
his  wife  and  swung  her  over  the  top  rope,  into  the 
ring.  He  followed  her  into  that  refuge's  fragile 
safety  with  a  speed  that  held  no  dignity  whatever. 
Glure,  seeing  the  action,  wasted  no  time  in  wriggling 
through  the  ropes  after  him. 

Tenebris  did  not  follow  them. 

One  thing  and  only  one  his  red  eyes  saw:  On  the 
ground,  not  six  feet  away,  rolled  and  moaned  a 
man.  The  man  was  down.  He  was  helpless.  Tene- 
bris charged. 

A  bull  plunging  at  a  near-by  object  shuts  both 
eyes.  A  cow  does  not.  Which  may — or  may  not 
— explain  the  Spanish  theory  that  bullfights  are 
safer  than  cow-fights.  To  this  eye-closing  trait 
many  a  hard-pressed  matador  has  owed  his  life. 

Tenebris,  both  eyes  screwed  shut,  hurled  his 
2OOO-pound  bulk  at  the  prostrate  groom.  Head 
down,  nose  in,  short  horns  on  a  level  with  the 
earth  and  barely  clearing  it,  he  made  his  rush. 

But  at  the  very  first  step  he  became  aware  that 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY         243 

something  was  amiss  with  his  pleasantly  antici- 
pated charge.  It  did  not  follow  specifications  or 
precedent. 

All  because  a  heavy  something  had  flung  its 
weight  against  the  side  of  his  lowered  head,  and  a 
new  and  unbearable  pain  was  torturing  his  blood- 
filled  nostrils. 

Tenebris  swerved.  He  veered  to  one  side, 
throwing  up  his  head  to  clear  it  of  this  unseen  tor- 
ment. 

As  a  result,  the  half -lifted  horns  grazed  the 
fallen  man.  The  pointed  hoofs  missed  him  alto- 
gether. At  the  same  moment  the  weight  was  gone 
from  against  the  bull's  head,  and  the  throbbing  stab 
from  his  nostrils. 

Pausing  uncertainly,  Tenebris  opened  his  eyes 
and  glared  about  him.  A  yard  or  two  away  a 
shaggy  dog  was  rising  from  the  tumble  caused  by 
the  jerky  uptossing  of  the  bull's  head. 

Now,  were  this  a  fiction  yarn,  it  would  be  inter- 
esting to  devise  reasons  why  Lad  should  have  flown 
to  the  rescue  of  a  human  whom  he  loathed,  and 
arrayed  himself  against  a  fellow-beast  toward 
which  he  felt  no  hatred  at  all. 

To  dogs  all  men  are  gods.  And  perhaps  Lad 
felt  the  urge  of  saving  even  a  detested  god  from 
the  onslaught  of  a  beast.  Or  perhaps  not.  One  can 
go  only  by  the  facts.  And  the- facts  were  that  the 
collie  had  checked  himself  in  the  reluctant  journey 


£44  LAD:    A  DOG 

toward  the  Mistress  and  had  gone  to  his  foe's 
defense. 

With  a  flash  of  speed  astonishing  in  so  large  and 
sedate  a  dog,  he  had  flown  at  the  bull  in  time — 
in  the  barest  time — to  grip  the  torn  nostrils  and 
turn  the  whirlwind  charge. 

And  now  Tenebris  shifted  his  baleful  glare  from 
the  advancing  dog  to  the  howling  man.  The  dog 
could  wait.  The  bull's  immediate  pleasure  and  pur- 
pose were  to  kill  the  man. 

He  lowered  his  head  again.  But  before  he  could 
launch  his  enormous  bulk  into  full  motion — before 
he  could  shut  his  eyes — the  dog  was  between  him 
and  his  quarry. 

In  one  spring  Lad  was  at  the  bull's  nose.  And 
again  his  white  eye  teeth  slashed  the  ragged  nostrils. 
Tenebris  halted  his  own  incipient  rush  and  strove 
to  pin  the  collie  to  the  ground.  It  would  have  been 
as  easy  to  pin  a  whizzing  hornet. 

Tenebris  thrust  at  the  clinging  dog,  once  more 
seeking  to  smash  Lad  against  the  sod  with  his  bat- 
tering-ram forehead  and  his  short  horns.  But  Lad 
was  not  there.  Instead,  he  was  to  the  left,  his 
body  clean  out  of  danger,  his  teeth  in  the  bull's  left 
ear. 

A  lunge  of  the  tortured  head  sent  Lad  rolling 
over  and  over.  But  by  the  time  he  stopped  rolling 
he  was  on  his  feet  again.  Not  only  on  his  feet, 
but  back  to  the  assault.  Back,  before  his  unwieldy 
foe  could  gauge  the  distance  for  another  rush  at  the 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY         £45 

man.  And  a  keen  nip  in  the  bleeding  nostrils  balked 
still  one  more  charge. 

The  bull,  snorting  with  rage,  suddenly  changed 
his  plan  of  campaign.  Apparently  his  first  ideas 
had  been  wrong.  It  was  the  man  who  could  wait, 
and  the  dog  that  must  be  gotten  out  of  the  way. 

Tenebris  wheeled  and  made  an  express-train  rush 
at  Lad.  The  collie  turned  and  fled.  He  did  not  flee 
with  tail  down,  as  befits  a  beaten  dog.  Brush  wav- 
ingly  aloft,  he  gamboled  along  at  top  speed,  just 
a  stride  or  two  ahead  of  the  pursuing  bull.  He 
even  looked  back  encouragingly  over  his  shoulder 
as  he  went. 

Lad  was  having  a  beautiful  time.  Seldom  had 
he  been  so  riotously  happy.  All  the  pent-up  mis- 
chief in  his  soul  was  having  a  glorious  airing. 

The  bull's  blind  charge  was  short,  as  a  bull's 
charge  always  is.  When  Tenebris  opened  his  eyes 
he  saw  the  dog,  not  ten  feet  in  front  of  him,  scam- 
pering for  dear  life  toward  the  river.  And  again 
Tenebris  charged. 

Three  such  charges,  one  after  another,  brought 
pursuer  and  pursued  to  within  a  hundred  feet  of 
the  water. 

Tenebris  was  not  used  to  running.  He  was  get- 
ting winded.  He  came  to  a  wavering  standstill, 
snorting  loudly  and  pawing  up  great  lumps  of  sod. 

But  he  had  not  stood  thus  longer  than  a  second 
before  Lad  was  at  him.  Burnished  shaggy  coat 
a-bristle,  tail  delightedly  wagging,  the  dog  bounded 


246  LAD:    A  DOG 

forward.  He  set  up  an  ear-splitting  fanfare  of 
barking. 

Round  and  round  the  bull  he  whirled,  never  let- 
ting up  on  that  deafening  volley  of  barks;  nipping 
now  at  ears,  now  at  nose,  now  at  heels;  dodging 
in  and  out  under  the  giant's  clumsy  body;  easily 
avoiding  the  bewilderingly  awkward  kicks  and 
lunges  of  his  enemy.  Then,  forefeet  crouching  and 
muzzle  close  to  the  ground,  like  a  playful  puppy, 
he  waved  his  plumed  tail  violently  and,  in  a  new 
succession  of  barks,  wooed  his  adversary  to  the 
attack. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight.  And  it  set  Tenebris  into 
active  motion  at  once. 

The  bull  doubtless  thought  he  himself  was  doing 
the  driving,  by  means  of  his  panting  rushes,  and 
by  his  lurches  to  one  side  or  another  to  keep  away 
from  the  dog's  sharp  bites.  But  he  was  not.  It 
was  Lad  who  chose  the  direction  in  which  they 
went.  And  he  chose  it  deliberately. 

Presently  the  two  were  but  fifteen  feet  away 
from  the  river,  at  a  point  where  the  bank  shelved, 
cliff -like,  for  two  or  three  yards,  down  to  a  wide 
pool. 

Feinting  for  the  nose,  Lad  induced  Tenebris  to 
lower  his  tired  head.  Then  he  sprang  lightly  over 
the  threatening  horns,  and  landed,  a-scramble,  with 
all  four  feet,  on  the  bull's  broad  shoulders. 

Scurrying  along  the  heaving  back,  the  dog  nipped 
Tenebris  on  the  hip,  and  dropped  to  earth  again. 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY        247 

The  insult,  the  fresh  pain,  the  astonishment  com- 
bined to  make  Tenebris  forget  his  weariness.  Beside 
himself  with  maniac  wrath,  he  shut  both  eyes  and 
launched  himself  forward.  Lad  slipped,  eel-like, 
to  one  side.  Carried  by  his  own  blind  momentum,, 
Tenebris  shot  over  the  bank  edge. 

Too  late  the  bull  looked.  Half  sliding,  half 
scrambling,  he  crashed  down  the  steep  sides  of  the 
bank  and  into  the  river. 

Lad,  tongue  out,  jogged  over  to  the  top  of  the 
bank,  where,  with  head  to  one  side  and  ears  cocked, 
he  gazed  interestedly  down  into  the  wildly  churned 
pool. 

Tenebris  had  gotten  to  his  feet  after  the  ducking ; 
and  he  was  floundering  pastern-deep  in  stickily  soft 
mud.  So  tightly  bogged  down  that  it  later  took 
the  efforts  of  six  farm-hands  to  extricate  him,  the 
bull  continued  to  flounder  and  to  bellow. 

A.  stream  of  people  were  running  down  the 
meadow  toward  the  river.  Lad  hated  crowds.  He 
made  a  loping  detour  of  the  nearest  runners  and 
sought  to  regain  the  spot  where  last  he  had  seen 
the  Mistress  and  Master.  Also,  if  his  luck  held 
good,  he  might  have  still  another  bout  with  the  man 
he  had  once  treed.  Which  would  be  an  ideal  climax 
to  a  perfect  day. 

He  found  all  the  objects  of  his  quest  together. 
The  groom,  hysterical,  was  swaying  on  his  feet,  sup- 
ported by  Glure. 

rAt  sight  of  the  advancing  collie  the  bitten  man 


248  LAD:    A  DOG 

cried  aloud  in  fear  and  clutched  his  employer  for 
protection. 

'Take  him  away,  sir!"  he  babbled  in  mortal 
terror.  "He'll  kill  me!  He  hates  me,  the  ugly 
hairy  devil!  He  hates  me.  He  tried  to  kill  me 
once  before!  He " 

"H'm!"  mused  the  Master.  "So  he  tried  to  kill 
you  once  before,  eh?  Aren't  you  mistaken?" 

"No,  I  ain't!"  wept  the  man.  "I'd  know  him  in 
a  million !  That's  why  he  went  for  me  again  to-day. 
He  remembered  me.  I  seen  he  did.  That's  no  dog. 
It's  a  devil!" 

"Mr.  Glure,"  asked  the  Master,  a  light  dawning, 
"when  this  chap  applied  to  you  for  work,  did  he 
wear  grayish  tweed  trousers?  And  were  they  in 
bad  shape?" 

"His  trousers  were  in  rags,"  said  Glure.  "I  re- 
member that.  He  said  a  savage  dog  had  jumped 
into  the  road  from  a  farmhouse  somewhere  and 
gone  for  him.  Why?" 

"Those  trousers,"  answered  the  Master,  "weren't 
entire  strangers  to  you.  You'd  seen  the  missing 
parts  of  them — on  a  tree  and  on  the  ground  near  it, 
at  The  Place.  Your  'treasure*  is  the  harness  thief 
Lad  treed  the  day  you  came  to  see  me.  So " 

"Nonsense!"  fumed  Glure.  "Why,  how  absurd! 
He " 

"I  hadn't  stolen  nothing !"  blubbered  the  man.  "I 
was  coming  cross-lots  to  a  stable  to  ask  for  work. 


SPEAKING  OF  UTILITY         249 

And  the  brute  went  for  me.  I  had  to  run  up  a 
tree  and " 

"And  it  didn't  occur  to  you  to  shout  for  help?" 
sweetly  urged  the  Master.  "I  was  within  call.  So 
was  Mr.  Glure.  So  was  at  least  one  of  my  men. 
An  honest  seeker  for  work  needn't  have  been  afraid 
to  halloo.  A  thief  would  have  been  afraid  to.  In 
fact,  a  thief  was!'3 

"Get  out  of  here,  you!"  roared  Glure,  convinced 
at  last.  "You  measly  sneak  thief!  Get  out  or  I'll 
have  you  jailed!  You're  an  imposter!  A  pan- 
handler! A " 

The  thief  waited  to  hear  no  more.  With  an  ap- 
prehensive glance  to  see  that  Lad  was  firmly  held, 
he  bolted  for  the  road. 

"Thanks  for  telling  me,"  said  Glure.  "He  might 
have  stolen  everything  at  Glure  Towers  if  I  hadn't 
found  out.  He " 

"Yes.  He  might  even  have  stolen  more  than 
the  cost  of  our  non-utilitarian  Lad's  keep,"  unkindly 
suggested  the  Master.  "For  that  matter,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  a  non-utilitarian  dog,  that  mad  bull's  horns, 
instead  of  his  nostrils,  would  be  red  by  this  time. 
At  least  one  man  would  have  been  killed.  Perhaps 
more.  So,  after  all " 

He  stopped.  The  Mistress  was  tugging  surrep- 
titiously at  his  sleeve.  The  Master,  in  obedience  to 
his  wife's  signal,  stepped  aside,  to  light  a  cigar. 

"I  wouldn't  say  any  more,  dear,  if  I  were  you," 
the  Mistress  was  whispering.  "You  see,  if  it  hadn't 


250  LAD:    A  DOG 

been  for  Lad,  the  bull  would  never  have  broken 
loose  in  the  first  place.  By  another  half -hour  that 
fact  may  dawn  on  Mr.  Glure,  if  you  keep  rubbing 
it  in.  Let's  go  over  to  the  grand  stand.  Come, 
Lad!" 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  KILLER 

ONE  of  the  jolliest  minutes  in  Lad's  daily 
cross-country  tramp  with  the  Mistress  and 
the  Master  was  his  dash  up  Mount  Pisgah. 
This  "mount"  was  little  more  than  a  foothill.     It 
was  treeless,  and  covered  with  short  grass  and  mul- 
lein; a  slope  where  no  crop  but  buckwheat  could 
be  expected  to  thrive.    It  rose  out  of  the  adjoining 
mountain  forests  in  a  long  and  sweeping  ascent. 

Here,  with  no  trees  or  undergrowth  to  impede 
him,  Lad,  from  puppyhood,  had  ordained  a  race- 
course of  his  own.  As  he  neared  the  hill  he  would 
always  dash  forward  at  top  speed;  flying  up  the 
rise  like  a  tawny  whirlwind,  at  unabated  pace,  until 
he  stopped,  panting  and  gloriously  excited,  on  the 
summit ;  to  await  his  slower-moving  human  escorts. 
One  morning  in  early  summer,  Lad,  as  usual, 
bounded  ahead  of  the  Mistress  and  the  Master,  as 
they  drew  near  to  the  treeless  "mount."  And,  as 
ever,  he  rushed  gleefully  forward  for  his  daily 
breather,  up  the  long  slope.  But,  before  he  had 
gone  fifty  yards,  he  came  to  a  scurrying  halt,  and 
stood  at  gaze.  His  back  was  bristling  and  his  lips 

251 


252  LAD:    A  DOG 

curled  back  from  his  white  teeth  in  sudden  annoy- 
ance. 

His  keen  nostrils,  even  before  his  eyes,  told  him 
something  was  amiss  with  his  cherished  race-track. 
The  eddying  shift  of  the  breeze,  from  west  to  north, 
had  brought  to  his  nose  the  odor  which  had  checked 
his  onrush;  an  odor  that  wakened  all  sorts  of 
vaguely  formless  memories  far  back  in  Lad's  brain ; 
and  which  he  did  not  at  all  care  for. 

Scent  is  ten  times  stronger,  to  a  dog,  than  is 
sight.  The  best  dog  is  near  sighted.  And  the 
worst  dog  has  a  magic  sense  of  smell.  Wherefore, 
a  dog  almost  always  uses  his  nose  first  and  his  eyes 
last.  Which  Lad  now  proceeded  to  do. 

Above  him  was  the  pale  green  hillside,  up  which 
he  loved  to  gallop.  But  its  surface  was  no  longer 
smoothly  unencumbered.  Instead,  it  was  dotted 
and  starred — singly  or  in  groups — with  fluffy  gray- 
ish-white creatures. 

Lad  was  almost  abreast  of  the  lowest  group  of 
sheep  when  he  paused.  Several  of  the  feeding 
animals  lifted  their  heads,  snortingly,  from  the  short 
herbage,  at  sight  of  him ;  and  fled  up  the  hill.  The 
rest  of  the  flock  joined  them  in  the  silly  stampede. 

The  dog  made  no  move  to  follow.  Instead,  his 
forehead  creased  and  his  eyes  troubled,  he  stared 
after  the  gray-white  surge  that  swept  upward  to- 
ward the  summit  of  his  favored  coursing  ground. 
The  Mistress  and  the  Master,  too,  at  sight  of  the 
woolly  avalanche,  stopped  and  staredl 


THE  KILLER  253 

From  over  the  brow  of  Mount  Pisgah  appeared 
the  non-picturesque  figure  of  a  man  in  blue  denim 
overalls — one  Titus  Romaine,  owner  of  the  sparse- 
grassed  hill.  Drawn  by  the  noisy  multiple  patter 
of  his  flock's  hoofs,  he  emerged  from  under  a  hill- 
top boulder's  shade;  to  learn  the  cause  of  their 
flight. 

Now,  in  all  his  life,  Lad  had  seen  sheep  just  once 
before.  That  one  exception  had  been  when  Hamil- 
car  Q.  Glure,  "the  Wall  Street  Farmer,"  had  cor- 
ralled a  little  herd  of  his  prize  Merinos,  overnight, 
at  The  Place,  on  the  way  to  the  Paterson  Livestock 
Show.  On  that  occasion,  the  sheep  had  broken  from 
the  corral,  and  Lad,  acting  on  ancestral  instinct, 
had  rounded  them  up,  without  injuring  or  scaring 
one  of  them. 

The  memory  was  not  pleasing  to  Lad,  and  he 
wanted  nothing  more  to  do  with  such  stupid  crea- 
tures. Indeed,  as  he  looked  now  upon  the  sheep 
that  were  obstructing  his  run,  he  felt  a  distinct  aver- 
sion to  them.  Whining  a  little,  he  trotted  back  to 
where  stood  the  Mistress  and  the  Master.  And,  as 
they  waited,  Titus  Romaine  bore  wrath  fully  down 
upon  them. 

"I've  been  expectin*  something  like  that!"  an- 
nounced the  land-owner.  "Ever  since  I  turned 
these  critters  out  here,  this  mornin'.  I  ain't  sur- 
prised a  bit.  I " 

"What  is  it  you've  been  expecting,  Romaine?" 
asked  the  Master.  "And  how  long  have  you  been 


254  LAD:    A  DOG 

a  sheep-raiser?  A  sheep,  here  in  the  North  Jersey 
hinterland,  is  as  rare  as " 

"I  been  expectin'  some  savage  dog  would  be 
runnin'  'em,"  retorted  the  farmer.  "Just  like  I've 
read  they  do.  An'  now  I've  caught  him  at  it !" 

"Caught  whom? — at  what?"  queried  the  per- 
plexed Mistress;  failing  to  note  the  man's  baleful 
glower  at  the  contemptuous  Lad. 

"That  big  ugly  brute  of  your'n,  of  course,"  de- 
clared Romaine.  "I  caught  him,  red-handed,  run- 
nin' my  sheep.  He " 

"Lad  did  nothing  of  the  kind,"  denied  the  Mis- 
tress. "The  instant  he  caught  sight  of  them  he 
stopped  running.  Lad  wouldn't  hurt  anything  that 
is  weak  and  helpless.  Your  sheep  saw  him  and  they 
ran  away.  He  didn't  follow  them  an  inch." 

"I  seen  what  I  seen,"  cryptically  answered  the 
man.  "An'  I  give  you  fair  warnin',  if  any  of  my 
sheep  is  killed,  I'll  know  right  where  to  come  to  look 
for  the  killer." 

"If  you  mean  Lad "  began  the  Master,  hotly. 

But  the  Mistress  intervened. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  decided  to  raise  sheep,  Mr. 
Romaine,"  she  said.  "Everyone  ought  to,  who  can. 
I  read,  only  the  other  day,  that  America  is  using 
up  more  sheep  than  it  can  breed ;  and  that  the  price 
of  fodder  and  the  scarcity  of  pasture  were  doing 
terrible  things  to  the  mutton-and-wool  supply.  I 
hope  you'll  have  all  sorts  of  good  luck.  And  you 
are  wise  to  watch  your  sheep  so  closely.  But  don't 


THE  KILLER  255 

be  afraid  of  Lad  harming  any  of  them.  He 
wouldn't,  for  worlds,  I  know.  Because  I  know 
Lad.  Come  along,  Laddie!"  she  finished,  as  she 
turned  to  go  away. 

But  Titus  Romaine  stopped  her. 

"I've  put  a  sight  of  money  into  this  flock  of 
sheep,"  he  declared.  "More'n  I  could  reely  afford. 
An'  I've  been  readin'  up  on  sheep,  too.  I've  been 
readin'  that  the  worst  en' my  to  sheep  is  'pred'tory 
dogs.'  An'  if  that  big  dog  of  your'n  ain't  'pred- 
'tory,'  then  .1  never  seen  one  that  was.  So  I'm 
warnin'  you,  fair •" 

"If  your  sheep  come  to  any  harm,  Mr.  Romaine/* 
returned  the  Mistress,  again  forestalling  an  untact- 
f ul  outbreak  from  her  husband,  "I'll  guarantee  Lad 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"An'  I'll  guarantee  to  have  him  shot  an*  have 
you  folks  up  in  court,  if  he  does,"  chivalrously 
retorted  Mr.  Titus  Romaine. 

With  which  exchange  of  goodfellowship,  the 
two  groups  parted,  Romaine  returning  to  his  scat- 
tered sheep,  while  the  Mistress,  Lad  at  her  heels, 
lured  the  Master  away  from  the  field  of  encounter. 
The  Master  was  fuming. 

"Here's  where  good  old  Mr.  Trouble  drops  in  on 
us  for  a  nice  long  visit!"  he  grumbled,  as  they 
moved  homeward.  "I  can  see  how  it  is  going  to 
turn  out.  Because  a  few  stray  curs  have  chased 
or  killed  sheep,  now  and  then,  every  decent  dog 
is  under  suspicion  as  a  sheep-killer.  If  one  of 


£56  LAD:    A  DOG 

Romaine's  wethers  gets  a  scratch  on  its  leg,  from 
a  bramble,  Lad  will  be  blamed.  If  one  of  the  mon- 
grels from  over  in  the  village  should  chase  his 
sheep,  Lad  will  be  accused.  And  we'll  be  in  the 
first  'neighborhood  squabble'  of  our  lives." 

The  Master  spoke  with  a  pessimism  his  wife 
did  not  share,  and  which  he,  himself,  did  not  really 
believe.  The  folk  at  The  Place  had  always  lived 
in  goodfellowship  and  peace  with  their  few  rural 
neighbors,  as  well  as  with  the  several  hundred  in- 
habitants of  the  mile-distant  village,  across  the 
lake.  And,  though  livestock  is  the  foundation  of 
ninety  rustic  feuds  out  of  ninety-one,  the  dogs  of 
The  Place  had  never  involved  their  owners  in  any 
such  row. 

Yet,  barely  three  days  later,  Titus  Romaine  bore 
down  upon  The  Place,  before  breakfast,  breathing 
threatenings  and  complaining  of  slaughter. 

He  was  waiting  on  the  veranda  in  blasphemous 
converse  with  The  Place's  foreman,  when  the  Mas- 
ter came  out.  At  Titus's  heels  stood  his  "hired 
man" — a  huge  and  sullen  person  named  Schwartz, 
who  possessed  a  scarce-conquered  accent  that  fitted 
the  name. 

"Well !"  orated  Romaine,  in  glum  greeting,  as  he 
sighted  the  Master.  "Well,  I  guessed  right!  He 
done  it,  after  all !  He  done  it.  We  all  but  caught 
him,  red-handed.  Got  away  with  four  of  my  best 
sheep !  Four  of  'em.  The  cur !" 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  demanded  the 


THE  KILLER  257 

Master,  as  the  Mistress,  drawn  by  the  visitor's  plan- 
gent tones,  joined  the  veranda-group.  '  'Bout  that 
ugly  big  dog  of  your'n!"  answered  Romaine.  "I 
knew  what  he'd  do,  if  he  got  the  chance.  I  knew 
it,  when  I  saw  him  runnin'  my  poor  sheep,  last 
week.  I  warned  you  then.  The  two  of  you.  An' 
now  he's  done  it!" 

"Done  what?"  insisted  the  Master,  impatient  of 
the  man's  noise  and  fury. 

"What  dog?"  asked  the  Mistress,  at  the  same 
time. 

"Are  you  talking  about  Lad?    If  you  are " 

"I'm  talkin'  about  your  big  brown  collie  cur!" 
snorted  Titus.  "He's  gone  an'  killed  four  of  my 
best  sheep.  Did  it  in  the  night  an'  early  this  morn- 
in'.  My  man  here  caught  him  at  the  last  of  'em, 
an'  drove  him  off,  just  as  he  was  finishin'  the  poor 
critter.  He  got  away  with  the  rest  of  'em." 

"Nonsense!"  denied  the  Master.  "You're  talk- 
ing rot.  Lad  wouldn't  touch  a  sheep.  And " 

"That's  what  all  folks  say  when  their  dogs  or 
their  children  is  charged  with  doin'  wrong !"  scoffed 
Romaine.  "But  this  time  it  won't  do  no  good 

"You  say  this  happened  last  night?"  interposed 
the  Mistress. 

"Yes,  it  did.  Last  night  an'  early  in  the  mornin', 
too.  Schwartz,  here " 

"But  Lad  sleeps  in  the  house,  every  night,"  ob- 
jected the  Mistress.  "He  sleeps  under  the  piano* 


258  LAD:    A  DOG 

in  the  music  room.  He  has  slept  there  every  night 
since  he  was  a  puppy.  The  maid  who  dusts  the 
downstairs  rooms  before  breakfast  lets  him  out, 
when  she  begins  work.  So  he " 

"Bolster  it  up  any  way  you  like!"  broke  in  Ro- 
maine.  "He  was  out  last  night,  all  right.  An*  early; 
this  morning,  too." 

"How  early  ?"  questioned  the  Master. 

"Five  o'clock,"  volunteered  Schwartz,  speaking 
up,  from  behind  his  employer.  "  I  know,  because 
that's  the  time  I  get  up.  I  went  out,  first  thing, 
to  open  the  barnyard  gate  and  drive  the  sheep  to 
the  pasture.  First  thing  I  saw  was  that  big  dog 
growling  over  a  sheep  he'd  just  killed.  He  saw 
me,  and  he  wiggled  out  through  the  barnyard  bars 
— same  way  he  had  got  in.  Then  I  counted  the 
sheep.  One  was  dead, — the  one  he  had  just  killed — 
and  three  were  gone.  We've  been  looking  for  their 
bodies  ever  since,  and  we  can't  find  them." 

"I  suppose  Lad  swallowed  them,"  ironically  put 
in  The  Place's  foreman.  "That  makes  about  as 
much  sense  as  the  rest  of  the  yarn.  The  Old  Dog 
would  no  sooner " 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  say  you  saw  Lad — saw 
and  recognised  him — in  Mr.  Titus's  barnyard, 
growling  over  a  sheep  he  had  just  killed?"  de- 
manded the  Mistress. 

"I  sure  do,"  affirmed  Schwartz.    "And  I " 

"An'  he's  ready  to  go  on  th'  stand  an*  take  oath 
to  it !"  supplemented  Titus.  "Unless  you'll  pay  me 


THE  KILLER  259 

the  damages  out  of  court.  Them  sheep  cost  me 
exac'ly  $12.10  a  head,  in  the  Pat'son  market,  one 
week  ago.  An'  sheep  on  the  hoof  has  gone  up  a 
full  forty  cents  more  since  then.  You  owe  me  for 
them  four  sheep  exac'ly " 

"I  owe  you  not  one  red  cent !"  denied  the  Master. 
"I  hate  law  worse  than  I  hate  measles.  But  I'll 
fight  that  idiotic  claim  all  the  way  up  to  the  Appel- 
late Division  before  I'll " 

The  Mistress  lifted  a  little  silver  whistle  that 
hung  at  her  belt  and  blew  it.  An  instant  later 
Lad  came  galloping  gaily  up  the  lawn  from  the  lake, 
adrip  with  water  from  his  morning  swim.  Straight, 
at  the  Mistress'  summons,  he  came,  and  stood,  ex- 
pectant, in  front  of  her,  oblivious  of  others. 

The  great  dog's  mahogany-and-snow  coat  shone 
wetly  in  the  sunshine.  Every  line  of  his  splendid 
body  was  tense.  His  eyes  looked  up  into  the  face 
of  the  loved  Mistress  in  eager  anticipation.  For 
a  whistle-call  usually  involved  some  matter  of  more 
than  common  interest. 

"That's  the  dog !"  cried  Schwartz,  his  thick  voice 
betraying  a  shade  more  of  its  half-lost  German 
accent,  in  the  excitement  of  the  minute.  "That's  the 
one.  He  has  washed  off  the  blood.  But  that  is 
the  one.  I  could  know  him  anywhere  at  all.  And 
I  knew  him,  already.  And  Mr.  Romaine  told  me 
to  be  looking  out  for  him,  about  the  sheep,  too. 
So  I " 

The  Master  had  bent  over  Lad.  examining  the 


260  LAD:    A  DOG 

dog's  mouth.  "Not  a  trace  of  blood  or  of  wool!*' 
he  announced.  "And  look  how  he  faces  us!  If 
he  had  anything  to  be  ashamed  of " 

"I  got  a  witness  to  prove  he  killed  my  sheep," 
cut  in  Romaine.  "Since  you  won't  be  honest 
enough  to  square  the  case  out  of  court,  then  the 
law'll  take  a  tuck  in  your  wallet  for  you.  The  law 
will  look  after  a  poor  man's  int'rest.  I  don't  won- 
der there's  folks  who  want  all  dogs  done  'way  with. 
Pesky  curs !  Here,  the  papers  say  we  are  short  on 
sheep,  an'  they  beg  us  to  raise  'em,  because  mutton 
is  worth  double  what  it  used  to  be,  in  open  market. 
Then,  when  I  buy  sheep,  on  that  sayso,  your  dog 
gets  four  of  'em  the  very  first  week.  Think  what 
them  four  sheep  would  'a  meant  to " 

"I'm  sorry  you  lost  them,"  the  Master  inter- 
rupted. "Mighty  sorry.  And  I'm  still  sorrier  if 
there  is  a  sheep-killing  dog  at  large  anywhere  in 
this  region.  But  Lad  never " 

"I  tell  ye,  he  did!"  stormed  Titus.  "I  got  proof 
of  it.  Proof  good  enough  for  any  court.  An'  the 
court  is  goin'  to  see  me  righted.  It's  goin'  to  do 
more.  It's  goin'  to  make  you  shoot  that  killer, 
there,  too.  I  know  the  law.  I  looked  it  up.  An' 
the  law  says  if  a  sheep-killin'  dog " 

"Lad  is  not  a  sheep-killing  dog !"  flashed  the  Mis- 
tress. 

"That's  what  he  is!"  snarled  Romaine.  "An', 
by  law,  he'll  be  shot  as  sech.  He " 

"Take  your  case  to  law,  then !"  retorted  the  Mas- 


THE  KILLER  261 

ter,  whose  last  shred  of  patience  went  by  the  board, 
at  the  threat.  "And  take  it  and  yourself  off  my 
Place!  Lad  doesn't  'run'  sheep.  But,  at  the  word 
from  me,  he'll  ask  nothing  better  than  to  'run'  you 
and  your  German  every  step  of  the  way  to  your  own 
woodshed.  Clear  out!" 

He  and  the  Mistress  watched  the  two  irately 
mumbling  intruders  plod  out  of  sight  up  the  drive. 
Lad,  at  the  Master's  side,  viewed  the  accusers'  de- 
parture with  sharp  interest.  Schooled  in  reading 
the  human  voice,  he  had  listened  alertly  to  the 
Master's  speech  of  dismissal.  And,  as  the  dog 
listened,  his  teeth  had  come  slowly  into  view  from 
beneath  a  menacingly  upcurled  lip.  His  eyes,  half 
shut,  had  been  fixed  on  Titus  with  an  expression 
that  was  not  pretty. 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  the  Mistress  miserably,  as 
she  and  her  husband  turned  indoors  and  made  their 
way  toward  the  breakfast  room.  "You  were  right 
about  'good  old  Mr.  Trouble  dropping  in  on  us/ 
Isn't  it  horrible?  But  it  makes  my  blood  boil  to 
think  of  Laddie  being  accused  of  such  a  thing. 
It  is  crazily  absurd,  of  course.  But " 

"Absurd?"  the  Master  caught  her  up.  "It's  the 
most  absurd  thing  I  ever  heard  of.  If  it  was 
about  any  other  dog  than  Lad,  it  would  be  good 
for  a  laugh.  I  mean,  Romaine's  charge  of  the 
dog's  doing  away  with  no  less  than  four  sheep 
and  not  leaving  a  trace  of  more  than  one  of  them. 
That,  alone,  would  get  his  case  laughed  out  of 


LAD:    A  DOG 

court.  I  remember,  once  in  Scotland,  I  was  stop- 
ping with  some  people  whose  shepherd  complained 
that  three  of  the  sheep  had  fallen  victim  to  a 
'killer/  We  all  went  up  to  the  moor-pasture  to 
look  at  them.  They  weren't  a  pretty  sight,  but 
they  were  all  there.  A  dog  doesn't  devour  a  sheep 
he  kills.  He  doesn't  even  lug  it  away.  Instead,  he 
just " 

"Perhaps  you'd  rather  describe  it  after  break- 
fast," suggested  the  Mistress,  hurriedly.  "This 
wretched  business  has  taken  away  all  of  my  ap- 
petite that  I  can  comfortably  spare." 

At  about  mid-morning  of  the  next  day,  the 
Master  was  summoned  to  the  telephone. 

"This  is  Maclay,"  said  the  voice  at  the  far  end. 

"Why,  hello,  Mac!"  responded  the  Master, 
mildly  wondering  why  his  old  fishing-crony,  the 
village's  local  Peace  Justice,  should  be  calling  him 
up  at  such  an  hour.  "If  you're  going  to  tell  me 
this  is  a  good  day  for  small-mouth  bass  to  bite  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  it  isn't.  It  isn't  because  I'm  up 
to  my  neck  in  work.  Besides,  it's  too  late  for  the 
morning  fishing,  and  too  early  for  the  bass  to  get 
up  their  afternoon  appetites.  So  don't  try  to  tempt 
me  into " 

"Hold  on!"  broke  in  Maclay.  "I'm  not  calling 
you  up  for  that.  I'm  calling  up  on  business ;  rotten 
unpleasant  business,  too." 

"What's  wrong?"  asked  the  Master. 

"I'm  hoping  Titus  Romaine  is,"  said  the  Justice. 


THE  KILLER  263 

"He's  just  been  here — with  his  North  Prussian 
hired  man  as  witness — to  make  a  complaint  about 
your  dog,  Lad.  Yes,  and  to  get  a  court  order  to 
have  the  old  fellow  shot,  too." 

"What!"  sputtered  the  Master.  "He  hasn't 
actually " 

"That's  just  what  he's  done,"  said  Maclay.  "He 
claims  Lad  killed  four  of  his  new  sheep  night  be- 
fore last,  and  four  more  of  them  this  morning  or 
last  night.  Schwartz  swears  he  caught  Lad  at  the 
last  of  the  killed  sheep  both  times.  It's  hard  luck, 
old  man,  and  I  feel  as  bad  about  it  as  if  it  were 
my  own  dog.  You  know  how  strong  I  am  for 
Lad.  He's  the  greatest  collie  I've  known,  but  the 
law  is  clear  in  such " 

"You  speak  as  if  you  thought  Lad  was  guilty!" 
flamed  the  Master.  "You  ought  to  know  better 
than  that.  He " 

"Schwartz  tells  a  straight  story,"  answered 
Maclay,  sadly,  "and  he  tells  it  under  oath.  He 
swears  he  recognized  Lad  first  time.  He  says  he 
volunteered  to  watch  in  the  barnyard  last  night. 
He  had  had  a  hard  day's  work  and  he  fell  asleep 
while  he  was  on  watch.  He  says  he  woke  up  in 
gray  dawn  to  find  the  whole  flock  in  a  turmoil,  and 
Lad  pinning  one  of  the  sheep  to  the  ground.  He 
had  already  killed  three.  Schwartz  drove  him 
away.  Three  of  the  sheep  were  missing.  One  Lad 
had  just  downed  was  dying.  Romaine  swears  he 
saw  Lad  'running'  his  sheep  last  week.  It " 


264  LAD:    A  DOG 

"What  did  you  do  about  the  case?*'  asked  the 
dazed  Master. 

"I  told  them  to  be  at  the  courtroom  at  three  this 
afternoon  with  the  bodies  of  the  two  dead  sheep 
that  aren't  missing,  and  that  I'd  notify  you  to  be 
there,  too." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  there!"  snapped  the  Master.  "Don't 
worry.  And  it  was  decent  of  you  to  make  them 
wait.  The  whole  thing  is  ridiculous!  It " 

"Of  course,"  went  on  Maclay,  "either  side  can 
easily  appeal  from  any  decision  I  make.  That  is 
.as  regards  damages.  But,  by  the  township's  new 
sheep-laws,  I'm  sorry  to  say  there  isn't  any  appeal 
from  the  local  Justice's  decree  that  a  sheep-killing 
dog  must  be  shot  at  once.  The  law  leaves  me  no 
option  if  I  consider  a  dog  guilty  of  sheep-killing. 
I  have  to  order  such  a  dog  put  to  death  at  once. 
That's  what's  making  me  so  blue.  I'd  rather  lose 
a  year's  pay  than  have  to  order  old  Lad  killed." 

"You  won't  have  to,"  declared  the  Master, 
stoutly;  albeit  he  was  beginning  to  feel  a  nasty 
sinking  in  the  vicinity  of  his  stomach. 

"We'll  manage  to  prove  him  innocent.  I'll  stake 
anything  you  like  on  that." 

"Talk  the  case  over  with  Dick  Col  fax  or  any 
other  good  lawyer  before  three  o'clock,"  suggested 
Maclay.  "There  may  be  a  legal  loophole  out  of 
the  muddle.  I  hope  to  the  Lord  there  is." 

"We're  not  going  to  crawl  out  through  any 
'loopholes/  Lad  and  I,"  returned  the  Master. 


THE  KILLER  265 

"We're  going  to  come  through,  dean.  See  if  we 
don't !" 

Leaving  the  telephone,  he  went  in  search  of  the 
Mistress,  and  more  and  more  disheartened  told  her 
the  story. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  he  finished,  "Romaine  and 
Schwartz  seem  to  have  made  Maclay  believe  their 
fool  yarn." 

"That  is  because  they  believe  it,  themselves,"  said 
the  Mistress,  "and  because,  just  as  soon  as  even 
the  most  sensible  man  is  made  a  Judge,  he  seems 
to  lose  all  his  common  sense  and  intuition  and  be- 
come nothing  but  a  walking  statute-book.  But 
you — you  think  for  a  moment,  do  you,  that  they 
can  persuade  Judge  Maclay  to  have  Lad  shot?' 

She  spoke  with  a  little  quiver  in  her  sweet  voice 
that  roused  all  the  Master's  fighting  spirit. 

"Thte  Place  is  going  to  be  in  a  state  of  siege 
against  the  entire  law  and  militia  of  New  Jersey," 
he  announced,  "before  one  bullet  goes  into  Lad. 
You  can  put  your  mind  to  rest  on  that.  But  that 
isn't  enough.  I  want  to  clear  him.  In  these  days 
of  'conservation*  and  scarcity,  it  is  a  grave  offense 
to  destroy  any  meat-animal.  And  the  loss  of  eight 
sheep  in  two  days — in  a  district  where  there  has 
been  such  an  effort  made  to  revive  sheep  rais- 
ing  " 

"Didn't  you  say  they  claim  the  second  lot  of 
sheep  were  killed  in  the  night  and  at  dawn,  just 


266  LAD:    A  DOG 

as  they  said  the  first  were  ?"  interposed  the  Mistress. 

"Why,  yes.     But " 

"Then/*  said  the  Mistress,  much  more  comfort- 
ably, "we  can  prove  Lad's  alibi  just  as  I  said  yes- 
terday we  could.  Marie  always  lets  him  out  in 
the  morning  when  she  comes  downstairs  to  dust  these 
lower  rooms.  She's  never  down  before  six  o'clock; 
and  the  sun,  nowadays,  rises  long  before  that. 
Schwartz  says  he  saw  Lad  both  times  in  the  early 
dawn.  We  can  prove,  by  Marie,  that  Lad  was  safe 
here  in  the  house  till  long  after  sunrise." 

Her  worried  frown  gave  way  to  a  smile  of  posi- 
tive inspiration.  The  Master's  own  darkling  face 
cleared. 

"Good!"  he  approved.  "I  think  that  cinches  it. 
Marie's  been  with  us  for  years.  Her  word  is  cer- 
tainly as  good  as  a  Boche  farmhand's.  Even 
Maclay's  'judicial  temperament'  will  have  to  admit 
that.  Send  her  in  here,  won't  you?" 

When  the  maid  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
study  a  minute  later,  the  Master  opened  the  ex- 
amination with  the  solemn  air  of  a  legal  veteran. 

"You  are  the  first  person  down  here  in  the  morn- 
ings, aren't  you,  Marie?"  he  began. 

"Why,  yes,  sir,"  replied  the  wondering  maid. 
"Yes,  always,  except  when  you  get  up  early  to  go 
fishing  or  when " 

"What  time  do  you  get  down  here  in  the  morn- 
ings," pursued  the  Master. 

"Along  about  six  o'clock,  sir,  mostly,"  said  the 


THE  KILLER  267 

maid,  bridling  a  bit  as  if  scenting  a  criticism  of 
her  work-hours. 

"Not  earlier  than  six?"  asked  the  Master. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Marie,  uncomfortably.  "Of 
course,  if  that's  not  early  enough,  I  suppose  I 
could " 

"It's  quite  early  enough/*  vouchsafed  the  Master. 
"There  is  no  complaint  about  your  hours.  You  al- 
ways let  Lad  out  as  soon  as  you  come  into  the 
music  room?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  "as  soon  as  I  get  down- 
stairs. Those  were  the  orders,  you  remember." 

The  Master  breathed  a  silent  sigh  of  relief.  The 
maid  did  not  get  downstairs  until  six.  The  dog, 
then,  could  not  get  out  of  the  house  until  that 
hour.  If  Schwartz  had  seen  any  dog  in  the  Ro- 
maine  barnyard  at  daybreak,  it  assuredly  was  not 
Lad.  Yet,  racking  his  brain,  the  Master  could  not 
recall  any  other  dog  in  the  vicinity  that  bore  even 
the  faintest  semblance  to  his  giant  collie.  And 
he  fell  to  recalling — from  his  happy  memories  of 
"Bob,  Son  of  Battle"— that  "Killers"  often  travel 
many  miles  from  home  to  sate  their  mania  for 
sheep-slaying. 

In  any  event,  it  was  no  concern  of  his  if  some 
distant  collie,  drawn  to  the  slaughter  by  the  queer 
"sixth"  collie-sense,  was  killing  Romaine's  new 
flock  of  sheep.  Lad  was  cleared.  The  maid's  very 
evidently  true  testimony  settled  that  point. 

"Yes,  sir,"  rambled  on  Marie,  beginning  to  take 


268  LAD:    A  DOG 

a  faint  interest  in  the  examination  now  that  it 
turned  upon  Lad  whom  she  loved.  "Yes,  sir, 
Laddie  always  comes  out  from  under  his  piano  the 
minute  he  hears  my  step  in  the  hall  outside.  And 
he  always  comes  right  up  to  me  and  wags  that  big 
plume  of  a  tail  of  his,  and  falls  into  step  alongside 
of  me  and  walks  over  to  the  front  door,  right  be- 
side me  all  the  way.  He  knows  as  much  as  many 
a  human,  that  dog  does,  sir." 

Encouraged  by  the  Master's  approving  nod,  the 
maid  ventured  to  enlarge  still  further  upon  the 
theme. 

"It  always  seems  as  if  he  was  welcoming  me 
downstairs,  like,"  she  resumed,  "and  glad  to  see 
me.  I've  really  missed  him  quite  bad  this  past  few 
mornings."  The  approving  look  on  the  Master's 
face  gave  way  to  a  glare  of  utter  blankness. 

"This  past  few  mornings?"  he  repeated,  blither- 
ingly.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,"  she  returned,  flustered  afresh  by  the 
quick  change  in  her  interlocutor's  manner.  "Ever 
since  those  French  windows  are  left  open  for  the 
night — same  as  they  always  are  when  the  hot 
weather  starts  in,  you  know,  sir.  Since  then, 
Laddie  don't  wait  for  me  to  let  him  out.  When 
he  wakes  up  he  just  goes  out  himself.  He  used 
to  do  that  last  year,  too,  sir.  He " 

"Thanks,"  muttered  the  Master,  dizzily.  "That's 
all.  Thanks," 

Left  alone,  he  sat  slumped  low  in  his  chair,  try- 


THE  KILLER  269 

ing  to  think.  He  was  as  calmly  convinced  as  ever 
of  his  dog's  innocence,  but  he  had  staked  every- 
thing on  Marie's  court  testimony.  And,  now,  that 
testimony  was  rendered  worse  than  worthless. 

Crankily  he  cursed  his  own  fresh-air  mania 
which  had  decreed  that  the  long  windows  on  the 
ground  floor  be  left  open  on  summer  nights.  With 
Lad  on  duty,  the  house  was  as  safe  from  success- 
ful burglary  in  spite  of  these  open  windows,  as  if 
guarded  by  a  squad  of  special  policemen.  And  the 
night-air,  sweeping  through,  kept  it  pleasantly  cool 
against  the  next  day's  heat.  For  this  same  cool- 
ness, a  heavy  price  was  now  due. 

Presently  the  daze  of  disappointment  passed 
leaving  the  Master  pulsing  with  a  wholesome  fight- 
ing-anger. Rapidly  he  revised  his  defense  and, 
with  the  Mistress*  far  cleverer  aid,  made  ready  for 
the  afternoon's  ordeal.  He  scouted  Maclay's  sug- 
gestion of  hiring  counsel  and  vowed  to  handle  the 
defense  himself.  Carefully  he  and  his  wife  went 
over  their  proposed  line  of  action. 

Peace  Justice  Maclay's  court  was  held  daily  in 
a  rambling  room  on  an  upper  floor  of  the  village's 
Odd  Fellows'  Hall.  The  proceedings  there  were 
generally  marked  by  shrewd  sanity  rather  than  by 
any  effort  at  formalism.  Maclay,  himself,  sat  at 
a  battered  little  desk  at  the  room's  far  end;  his 
clerk  using  a  corner  of  the  same  desk  for  the 
scribbling  of  his  sketchy  notes. 

In  front  of  the  desk  was  a  rather  long  deal  table 


£70  LAD:    A  DOG 

with  kitchen  chairs  around  it.  Here,  plaintiffs  and 
defendants  and  prisoners  and  witnesses  and  law- 
yers were  wont  to  sit,  with  no  order  of  precedent 
or  of  other  formality.  Several  other  chairs  were 
ranged  irregularly  along  the  wall  to  accommodate 
any  overflow  of  the  table's  occupants. 

Promptly  at  three  o'clock  that  afternoon,  the 
Mistress  and  the  Master  entered  the  courtroom. 
Close  at  the  Mistress'  side — though  held  by  no 
leash — paced  Lad.  Maclay  and  Romaine  and 
Schwartz  were  already  on  hand.  So  were  the  clerk 
and  the  constable  and  one  or  two  idle  spectators. 
At  a  corner  of  the  room,  wrapped  in  burlap,  were 
huddled  the  bodies  of  the  two  slain  sheep. 

Lad  caught  the  scent  of  the  victims  the  instant 
he  set  foot  in  the  room,  and  he  sniffed  vibrantly 
once  or  twice.  Titus  Romaine,  his  eyes  fixed 
scowlingly  on  the  dog,  noted  this,  and  he  nudged 
Schwartz  in  the  ribs  to  call  the  German's  attention 
to  it. 

Lad  turned  aside  in  fastidious  disgust  from  the 
bumpy  burlap  bundle.  Seeing  the  Judge  and  recog- 
nizing him  as  an  old  acquaintance,  the  collie  wagged 
his  plumed  tail  in  gravely  friendly  greeting  and 
stepped  forward  for  a  pat  on  the  head. 

"Lad!"  called  the  Mistress,  softly. 

At  the  word  the  dog  paused  midway  to  the  em- 
barrassed Maclay's  desk  and  obediently  turned 
back.  The  constable  was  drawing  up  a  chair  at 
the  deal  table  for  the  Mistress.  Lad  curled  down 


THE  KILLER  271 

beside  her,  resting  one  snowy  little  forepaw  pro- 
tectingly  on  her  slippered  foot.  And  the  hearing 
began. 

Romaine  repeated  his  account  of  the  collie's 
alleged  depredations,  starting  with  Lad's  first  view 
of  the  sheep.  Schwartz  methodically  retold  his 
own  story  of  twice  witnessing  the  killing  of  sheep 
by  the  dog. 

The  Master  did  not  interrupt  either  narrative, 
though,  on  later  questioning  he  forced  the  sulkily 
truthful  Romaine  to  admit  he  had  not  actually  seen 
Lad  chase  the  sheep-flock  that  morning  on  Mount 
Pisgah,  but  had  merely  seen  the  sheep  running,  and 
the  dog  standing  at  the  hill- foot  looking  upward 
at  their  scattering  flight.  Both  the  Mistress  and 
the  Master  swore  that  the  dog  on  that  occasion,  had 
made  no  move  to  pursue  or  otherwise  harass  the 
sheep. 

Thus  did  Lad  win  one  point  in  the  case.  But, 
in  view  of  the  after-crimes  wherewith  he  was 
charged,  the  point  was  of  decidedly  trivial  value. 
Even  if  he  had  not  attacked  the  flock  on  his  first 
view  of  them  he  was  accused  of  killing  no  less  than 
eight  of  their  number  on  two  later  encounters. 
And  Schwartz  was  an  eye-witeness  to  this — 
Schwartz,  whose  testimony  was  as  clear  and  as 
simple  as  daylight. 

With  a  glance  of  apology  at  the  Mistress,  Judge 
Maclay  ordered  the  sheep-carcasses  taken  from 


LAD:    A  DOG 

their  burlap  cerements  and  laid  on  the  table  for 
court-inspection. 

While  he  and  Schwartz  arranged  the  grisly  ex- 
hibits for  the  judge's  view,  Titus  Romaine  ex- 
patiated loudly  on  the  value  of  the  murdered  sheep 
and  on  the  brutally  useless  wastage  in  their  slay- 
ing. The  Master  said  nothing,  but  he  bent  over 
each  of  the  sheep,  carefully  studying  the  throat- 
wounds.  At  last  he  straightened  himself  up  from 
his  task  and  broke  in  on  Romaine's  Antony-like 
funeral-oration  by  saying  quietly : 

"Your  honor,  these  sheep's  throats  were  not  cut 
by  a  dog.  Neither  by  Lad  nor  by  any  'killer/  Look 
for  yourself.  I've  seen  dog-killed  sheep.  The 
wounds  were  not  at  all  like  these."  ^ 

"Not  killed  by  a  dog,  hey?"  loudly  sdoffed 
Romaine.  "I  s'pose  they  was  chewed  by  lightnin', 
then?  Or,  maybe  they  was  bit  by  a  skeeter? 
Huh!" 

"They  were  not  bitten  at  ?.ll,"  countered  the 
Master.  "Still  less,  were  they  chewed.  Look! 
Those  gashes  are  ragged  enough,  but  they  are  as 
straight  as  if  they  were  made  by  a  machine.  If 
ever  you  have  seen  a  dog  worry  a  piece  of 
meat " 

"Rubbish!"  grunted  Titus.  "You  talk  like  a 
fool!  The  sheeps'  throats  is  torn.  Schwartz  seen 
your  cur  tear  'em.  That's  all  there  is  to  it. 
Whether  he  tore  'em  straight  or  whether  he  tore 


THE  KILLER  273 

'em  crooked  don't  count  in  Law.  He  tore  'em. 
An'  I  got  a  reli'ble  witness  to  prove  it." 

"Your  Honor,"  said  the  Master,  suddenly.  "May 
I  interrogate  the  witness?" 

Maclay  nodded.  The  Master  turned  to  Schwartz, 
who  faced  him  in  stolid  composure. 

"Schwartz,"  began  the  Master,  "you  say  it  was 
light  enough  for  you  to  recognize  the  sheep-killing 
dog  both  mornings  in  Romaine's  barnyard.  How 
near  to  him  did  you  get?" 

Schwartz  pondered  for  a  second,  then  made  care- 
ful answer: 

"First  time,  I  ran  into  the  barnyard  from  the 
house  side  and  your  dog  cut  and  run  out  of  it  from 
the  far  side  when  he  saw  me  making  for  him. 
That  time,  I  don't  think  I  got  within  thirty  feet 
of  him.  But  I  was  near  enough  to  see  him  plain, 
and  I'd  seen  him  often  enough  before  on  the  road 
or  in  your  car;  so  I  knew  him  all  right.  The  next 
time — this  morning,  Judge — I  was  within  five  feet 
of  him,  or  even  nearer.  For  I  was  near  enough  to 
hit  him  with  the  stick  I'd  just  picked  up  and  to 
land  a  kick  on  his  ribs  as  he  started  away.  I  saw 
him  then  as  plain  as  I  see  you.  And  nearer  than 
I  am  to  you.  And  the  light  was  'most  good  enough 
to  read  by,  too." 

"Yes?"  queried  the  Master.  "If  I  remember 
rightly  you  told  Judge  Maclay  that  you  were  on 
watch  last  night  in  the  cowshed,  just  alongside  the 


274  LAD:    A  DOG 

barnyard  where  the  sheep  were;  and  you  fell 
asleep;  and  woke  just  in  time  to  see  a  dog " 

"To  see  your  dog "  corrected  Schwartz. 

"To  see  a  dog  growling  over  a  squirming  and 
bleating  sheep  he  had  pulled  down.  How  far  away 
from  you  was  he  when  you  awoke?" 

"Just  outside  the  cowshed  door.  Not  six  feet 
from  me.  I  ups  with  the  stick  I  had  with  me  and 
ran  out  at  him  and " 

"Were  he  and  the  sheep  making  much  noise?" 

"Between  'em  they  was  making  enough  racket 
to  wake  a  dead  man,"  replied  Schwartz.  "What 
with  your  dog's  snarling  and  growling,  and  the 
poor  sheep's  bl'ats.  And  all  the  other  sheep " 

"Yet,  you  say  he  had  killed  three  sheep  while 
you  slept  there — had  killed  them  and  carried  or 
dragged  their  bodies  away  and  come  back  again; 
and,  presumably  started  a  noisy  panic  in  the  flock 
every  time.  And  none  of  that  racket  waked  you 
until  the  fourth  sheep  was  killed?" 

"I  was  dog-tired,"  declared  Schwartz.  "I'd  been 
at  work  in  our  south-mowing  for  ten  hours  the 
day  before,  and  up  since  five.  Mr.  Romaine  can 
tell  you  I'm  a  hard  man  to  wake  at  best.  I  sleep 
like  the  dead." 

"That's  right!"  assented  Titus.  "Time  an' 
again,  I  have  to  bang  at  his  door  an'  holler  myself 
hoarse,  before  I  can  get  him  to  open  his  eyes.  My 
wife  says  he's  the  sleepin'est  sleeper " 

"You  ran  out  of  the  shed  with  your  stick,"  re- 


THE  KILLER  275 

sumed  the  Master,  "and  struck  the  dog  before  he 
could  get  away?  And  as  he  turned  to  run  you 
kicked  him?" 

"Yes,  sir.    That's  what  I  did." 

"How  hard  did  you  hit  him?" 

"A  pretty  good  lick,"  answered  Schwartz,  with 
reminiscent  satisfaction.  "Then  I " 

"And  when  you  hit  him  he  slunk  away  like  a 
whipped  cur?  He  made  no  move  to  resent  it?  I 
mean,  he  did  not  try  to  attack  you?" 

"Not  him!"  asserted  Schwartz,  "I  guess  he  was 
glad  enough  to  get  out  of  reach.  He  slunk  away 
so  fast,  I  hardly  had  a  chance  to  land  fair  on  him, 
when  I  kicked." 

"Here  is  my  riding-crop,"  said  the  Master. 
"Take  it,  please,  and  strike  Lad  with  it  just  as  you 
struck  him — or  the  sheep-killing  dog — with  your 
stick.  Just  as  hard.  Lad  has  never  been  struck 
except  once,  unjustly,  by  me,  years  ago.  He  has 
never  needed  it.  But  if  he  would  slink  away  like 
a  whipped  mongrel  when  a  stranger  hits  him,  the 
sooner  he  is  beaten  to  death  the  better.  Hit  him 
exactly  as  you  hit  him  this  morning." 

Judge  Maclay  half -opened  his  lips  to  protest. 
He  knew  the  love  of  the  people  of  The  Place  for 
Lad,  and  he  wondered  at  this  invitation  to  a  farm- 
hand to  thrash  the  dog  publicly.  He  glanced  at 
the  Mistress.  Her  face  was  calm,  even  a  little 
amused.  Evidently  the  Master's  request  did  not 
horrify  or  surprise  her. 


276  LAD:    A  DOG 

Schwartz's  stubby  fingers  gripped  the  crop  the 
Master  forced  into  his  hand. 

With  true  Teutonic  relish  for  pain-inflicting,  he 
swung  the  weapon  aloft  and  took  a  step  toward 
the  lazily  recumbent  collie,  striking  with  all  his 
strength. 

Then,  with  much-increased  speed,  Schwartz  took 
three  steps  backward.  For,  at  the  menace,  Lad  had 
leaped  to  his  feet  with  the  speed  of  a  fighting 
wolf,  eluding  the  descending  crop  as  it  swished 
past  him  and  launching  himself  straight  for  the 
wielder's  throat.  He  did  not  growl;  he  did  not 
pause.  He  merely  sprang  for  his  assailant  with  a 
deadly  ferocity  that  brought  a  cry  from  Maclay. 

The  Master  caught  the  huge  dog  midway  in  his 
throatward  flight. 

"Down,  Lad !"  he  ordered,  gently. 

The  collie,  obedient  to  the  word,  stretched  him- 
self on  the  floor  at  the  Mistress'  feet.  But  he  kept 
a  watchful  and  right  unloving  eye  on  the  man  who 
had  struck  at  him. 

"It's  a  bit  odd,  isn't  it,"  suggested  the  Master, 
"that  he  went  for  you,  like  that,  just  now;  when, 
this  morning,  he  slunk  away  from  your  blow,  in 
cringing  fear?" 

"Why  wouldn't  he?"  growled  Schwartz,  his 
stolid  nerve  shaken  by  the  unexpected  onslaught. 
"His  folks  are  here  to  back  him  up,  and  every- 
thing. Why  wouldn't  he  go  for  me!  He  was 
slinky  enough  when  I  whaled  him,  this  morning." 


THE  KILLER  277 

"H'm!"  mused  the  Master.  "You  hit  a  strong 
blow,  Schwartz.  I'll  say  that,  for  you.  You 
missed  Lad,  with  my  crop.  But  you've  split  the 
crop.  And  you  scored  a  visible  mark  on  the 
wooden  floor  with  it  Did  you  hit  as  hard  as  that 
when  you  struck  the  sheep-killer,  this  morning?" 

"A  sight  harder,  responded  Schwartz.  "My 
mad  was  up.  I " 

"A  dog's  skin  is  softer  than  a  pine  floor/'  said 
the  Master.  "Your  Honor,  such  a  blow  would 
have  raised  a  weal  on  Lad's  flesh,  an  inch  high. 
Would  your  Honor  mind  passing  your  hand  ove,r 
his  body  and  trying  to  locate  such  a  weal?" 

"This  is  all  outside  the  p'int !"  raged  the  annoyed 
Titus  Romaine.  "You're  a-dodgin'  the  issue,  I  tell 
ye.  I " 

"If  your  Honor  please!"  insisted  the  Master. 

The  judge  left  his  desk  and  whistled  Lad  across 
to  him.  The  dog  looked  at  his  Master,  doubtfully. 
The  Master  nodded.  The  collie  arose  and  walked 
in  leisurely  fashion  over  to  the  waiting  judge. 
Maclay  ran  an  exploring  hand  through  the  magnifi- 
cent tawny  coat,  from  head  to  haunch;  then  along 
the  dog's  furry  sides.  Lad  hated  to  be  handled 
by  anyone  but  the  Mistress  or  the  Master.  But  at 
a  soft  word  from  the  Mistress,  he  stood  stock  still 
and  submitted  to  the  inspection. 

"I  find  no  weal  or  any  other  mark  on  him," 
presently  reported  the  Judge. 

The  Mistress  smiled  happily.    The  whole  investi- 


278  LAD:    A  DOG 

gation,  up  to  this  point,  and  further,  was  along 
eccentric  lines  she  herself  had  thought  out  and  had 
suggested  to  her  husband.  Lines  suggested  by  her 
knowledge  of  Lad. 

"Schwartz,"  went  on  the  Master,  interrupting 
another  fuming  outbreak  from  Romaine,  "I'm 
afraid  you  didn't  hit  quite  as  hard  as  you  thought 
you  did,  this  morning;  or  else  some  other  dog  is 
carrying  around  a  big  welt  on  his  flesh,  to-day. 

Now  for  the  kick  you  say  you  gave  the  collie. 
j » 

"I  won't  copy  that,  on  your  bloodthirsty  dog!" 
vociferated  Schwartz.  "Not  even  if  the  Judge 
jails  me  for  contempt,  I  won't.  He'd  likely  kill 
me!" 

"And  yet  he  ran  from  you,  this  morning,"  the 
Master  reminded  him.  "Well,  I  won't  insist  on 
your  kicking  Lad.  But  you  say  it  was  a  light 
kick ;  because  he  was  running  away  when  it  landed. 
I  am  curious  to  know  just  how  hard  a  kick  it  was. 
In  fact,  I'm  so  curious  about  it  that  I  am  going  to 
offer  myself  as  a  substitute  for  Lad.  My  riding 
boot  is  a  good  surface.  Will  you  kindly  kick  me 
there,  Schwartz ;  as  nearly  as  possible  with  the  same 
force  (no  more,  no  less)  than  you  kicked  the  dog?" 

"I  protest!"  shouted  Romaine.  "This  measly 
tomfoolishness  is " 

"If  your  Honor  please!"  appealed  the  Master 
sharply;  turning  from  the  bewildered  Schwartz  to 
the  no  less  dismayed  Judge. 


THE  KILLER  279 

Maclay  was  on  his  feet  to  overrule  so  strange  a 
request.  But  there  was  keen  supplication  in  the 
Master's  eye  that  made  the  Judge  pause.  Maclay 
glanced  again  at  the  Mistress.  In  spite  of  the  pros- 
pect of  seeing  her  husband  kicked,  her  face  wore  a 
most  pleased  smile.  The  Judge  noted,  though,  that 
she  was  stroking  Lad's  head  and  that  she  was  un- 
obtrusively turning  that  head  so  that  the  dog  faced 
Schwartz. 

"Now,  then!"  adjured  the  Master.  "Whenever 
you're  ready,  Schwartz!  A  German  doesn't  get  a 
chance,  like  this,  every  day,  to  kick  an  American. 
And  I'll  promise  not  to  go  for  your  throat,  as  Lad- 
die tried  to.  Kick  away!' 

Awkwardly,  shamblingly,  Schwartz  stepped  for- 
ward. Urged  on  by  his  racial  veneration  for  the 
Law — and  perhaps  not  sorry  to  assail  the  man 
whose  dog  had  tried  to  throttle  him — he  drew  back 
his  broganed  left  foot  and  kicked  out  in  the  gen- 
eral direction  of  the  calf  of  the  Master's  thick  rid- 
ing boot. 

The  kick  did  not  land.  Not  that  the  Master 
dodged  or  blocked  it.  He  stood  moveless,  and 
grinning  expectantly.  "\ 

But  the  courtroom  shook  with  a  wild-beast  yell 
— a  yell  of  insane  fury.  And  Schwartz  drew  back 
his  half-extended  left  foot  in  sudden  terror;  as  a 
great  furry  shape  came  whizzing  through  the  air 
at  him. 

The  sight  of  the  half -delivered  kick,  at  his  wor- 


280  LAD:    A  DOG 

shipped  master,  had  had  precisely  the  effect  on  Lad 
that  the  Mistress  had  foreseen  when  she  planned 
the  manoeuver.  Almost  any  good  dog  will  attack 
a  man  who  seeks  to  strike  its  owner.  And  Lad 
seemed  to  comprehend  that  a  kick  is  a  more  con- 
temptuous affront  than  is  a  blow. 

Schwartz's  kick  at  the  Master  had  thrown  the 
adoring  dog  into  a  maniac  rage  against  this  defiler 
of  his  idol.  The  memory  of  Schwartz's  blow  at 
himself  was  as  nothing  to  it.  It  aroused  in  the 
collie's  heart  a  deathless  blood-feud  against  the 
man.  As  the  Mistress  had  known  it  would. 

The  Mistress*  sharp  command,  and  the  Master's 
hastily  outflung  arm  barely  sufficed  to  deflect  Lad's 
charge.  He  writhed  in  their  dual  grasp,  snarling 
furiously,  his  eyes  red;  his  every  giant  muscle 
strained  to  get  at  the  cowering  Schwartz. 

"We've  had  enough  of  this!"  imperatively  or- 
dained Maclay,  above  the  babel  of  Titus  Romaine's 
protests.  "In  spite  of  the  informality  of  hearing, 
this  is  a  court  of  law:  not  a  dog-kennel.  I " 

"I  crave  your  Honor's  pardon,"  apologized  the 
Master.  "I  was  merely  trying  to  show  that  Lad  is 
not  the  sort  of  dog  to  let  a  stranger  strike  and  kick 
him  as  this  man  claims  to  have  done  with  impunity. 
I  think  I  have  shown,  from  Lad's  own  regrettable 
actions,  that  it  was  some  other  dog — if  any — 
which  cheered  Romaine's  barnyard,  this  morning, 
and  yesterday  morning. 

"It  was  your  dog!"  cried  Schwartz,  getting  his 


THE  KILLER  281 

breath,  in  a  swirl  of  anger.  "Next  time  I'll  be  on 
watch  with  a  shotgun  and  not  a  stick.  I'll " 

"There  ain't  going  to  be  no  'next  time/  "  asserted 
the  equally  angry  Romaine.  "Judge,  I  call  on  you 
to  order  that  sheep-killer  shot;  an'  to  order  his 
master  to  indemnify  me  for  th'  loss  of  my  eight 
killed  sheep!" 

"Your  Honor!"  suavely  protested  the  Master, 
"may  I  ask  you  to  listen  to  a  counter-proposition? 
A  proposition  which  I  think  will  be  agreeable  to 
Mr.  Romaine,  as  well  as  to  myself?" 

"The  only  proposition  /'//  agree  to,  is  the  shootin' 
of  that  cur  and  the  indemnify  in'  of  me  for  my 
sheep !"  persisted  Romaine. 

Maclay  waved  his  hand  for  order;  then,  turning 
to  the  Master,  said : 

"State  your  proposition." 

"I  propose,"  began  the  Master,  "that  Lad  be 
paroled,  in  my  custody,  for  the  space  of  twenty- 
four  hours.  I  will  deposit  with  the  court,  here  and 
now,  my  bond  for  the  sum  of  one  thousand  dollars ; 
to  be  paid,  on  demand,  to  Titus  Romaine;  if  one  or 
more  of  his  sheep  are  killed  by  any  dog,  during  that 
space  of  time." 

The  crass  oddity  of  the  proposal  set  Titus's 
leathery  mouth  ajar.  Even  the  Judge  gasped  aloud 
at  its  bizarre  terms.  Schwartz  looked  blank,  until, 
little  by  little,  the  purport  of  the  words  sank  into 
his  slow  mind.  Then  he  permitted  himself  the  rare 
luxury  of  a  chuckle. 


LAD:    A  DOG 

"Do  I  und'stand  you  to  say,"  demanded  Titus 
Romaine,  of  the  Master,  "that  if  I'll  agree  to  hold 
up  this  case  for  twenty-four  hours  you'll  give  me 
one  thousan'  dollars,  cash,  for  any  sheep  of  mine 
that  gets  killed  by  dogs  in  that  time?" 

"That  is  my  proposition,"  returned  the  Master. 
"To  cinch  it,  I'll  let  you  make  out  the  written  ar- 
rangement, your  self.  And  I'll  give  the  court  a  bond 
for  the  money,  at  once,  with  instructions  that  the 
sum  is  to  be  paid  to  you,  if  you  lose  one  sheep, 
through  dogs,  in  the  next  day.  I  furthermore  agree 
to  shoot  Lad,  myself,  if  you  lose  one  or  more  sheep 
in  that  time,  and  in  that  way,  I'll  forfeit  another 
thousand  if  I  fail  to  keep  that  part  of  my  contract. 
How  about  it?" 

"I  agree!"  exclaimed  Titus. 

Schwartz's  smile,  by  this  time,  threatened  to  split 
his  broad  face  across.  Maclay  saw  the  Mistress' 
cheek  whiten  a  little;  but  her  aspect  betrayed  no 
worry  over  the  possible  loss  of  a  thousand  dollars 
and  the  far  more  painful  loss  of  the  dog  she  loved. 

When  Romaine  and  Schwartz  had  gone,  the  Mas- 
ter tarried  a  moment  in  the  courtroom. 

"I  can't  make  out  what  you're  driving  at,"  Maclay 
told  him.  "But  you  seem  to  me  to  have  done  a 
mighty  foolish  thing.  To  get  a  thousand  dollars 
Romaine  is  capable  of  scouring  the  whole  country 
for  a  sheep-killing  dog.  So  is  Schwartz — if  only 
to  get  Lad  shot.  Did  you  see  the  way  Schwartz 
looked  at  Lad  as  he  went  out?  He  hates  him." 


THE  KILLER  283 

"Yes,"  said  the  Master.  "And  I  saw  the  way 
Lad  looked  at  him.  Lad  will  never  forget  that 
kick  at  me.  He'll  attack  Schwartz  for  it,  if  they 
come  together  a  year  from  now.  That's  why  we 
arranged  it.  Say,  Mac;  I  want  you  to  do  me  a 
big  favor.  A  favor  that  comes  within  the  square 
and  angle  of  your  work.  I  want  you  to  go  fishing 
with  me,  to-night.  Better  come  over  to  dinner  and 
be  prepared  to  spend  the  night.  The  fishing  won't 
start  till  about  twelve  o'clock/' 

"Twelve  o'clock!"  echoed  Maclay.  "Why,  man, 
nothing  but  catfish  will  bite  at  that  hour. 
And  I " 

"You're  mistaken,"  denied  the  Master.  "Much 
bigger  fish  will  bite.  Much  bigger.  Take  my  word 
for  that.  My  wife  and  I  have  it  all  figured  out. 
I'm  not  asking  you  in  your  official  capacity;  but 
as  a  friend.  I'll  need  you,  Mac.  It  will  be  a  big 
favor  to  me.  And  if  I'm  not  wrong,  there'll  be 
sport  in  it  for  you,  too.  I'm  risking  a  thousand 
dollars  and  my  dog,  on  this  fishing  trip.  Won't  you 
risk  a  night's  sleep?  I  ask  it  as  a  worthy  and  dis- 
tressed  " 

"Certainly,"  assented  the  wholly  perplexed  Judge, 
impressed,  "but  I  don't  get  your  idea  at  all.  I " 

"I'll  explain  it  before  we  start,"  promised  the 
Master.  "All  I  want,  now,  is  for  you  to  commit 
yourself  to  the  scheme.  If  it  fails,  you  won't  lose 
anything,  except  your  sleep.  Thanks  for  saying 
you'll  come." 


£84  LAD:    A  DOG 

At  a  little  after  ten  o'clock  that  night  the  last 
light  in  Titus  Romaine's  farmhouse  went  out.  A1 
few  moments  later  the  Master  got  up  from  a  rock 
on  Mount  Pisgah's  summit,  on  which  he  and 
Maclay  had  been  sitting  for  the  past  hour.  Lad, 
at  their  feet,  rose  expectantly  with  them. 

"Come  on,  old  Man,"  said  the  Master.  "Well 
drop  down  there,  now.  It  probably  means  a  long 
wait  for  us.  But  it's  better  to  be  too  soon  than 
too  late;  when  I've  got  so  much  staked.  If  we're 
seen,  you  can  cut  and  run.  Lad  and  I  will  cover 
your  retreat  and  see  you  aren't  recognized.  Steady, 
there,  Lad.  Keep  at  heel." 

Stealthily  the  trio  made  their  way  down  the  hill 
to  the  farmstead  at  its  farther  base.  Silently  they 
crept  along  the  outer  fringe  of  the  home-lot,  until 
they  came  opposite  the  black-gabled  bulk  of  the 
barn.  Presently,  their  slowly  cautious  progress 
brought  them  to  the  edge  of  the  barnyard,  and  to 
the  rail  fence  which  surrounds  it.  There  they 
halted. 

From  within  the  yard,  as  the  huddle  of  drowsy 
sheep  caught  the  scent  of  the  dog,  came  a  slight 
stirring.  But,  after  a  moment,  the  yard  was  quiet 
again. 

"Get  that?"  whispered  the  Master,  his  mouth 
close  to  Maclay 's  ear.  "Those  sheep  are  supposed 
to  have  been  raided  by  a  killer-dog,  for  the  past 
two  nights.  Yet  the  smell  of  a  dog  doesn't  even 
make  them  bleat.  If  they  had  been  attacked  by 


THE  KILLER  285 

any  dog,  last  night,  the  scent  of  Lad  would  throw 
them  into  a  panic." 

"I  get  something  else,  too,"  replied  Maclay,  in 
the  same  ail-but  soundless  whisper.  "And  I'm 
ashamed  I  didn't  think  of  it  before.  Romaine  said 
the  dog  wriggled  into  the  yard  through  the  bars, 
and  out  again  the  same  way.  Well,  if  those  bars 
were  wide  enough  apart  for  an  eighty-pound  collie, 
like  Lad,  to  get  through,  what  would  there  be  to 
prevent  all  these  sheep  from  escaping,  the  same  way, 
any  time  they  wanted  to  ?  I'll  have  a  look  at  those 
bars  before  I  pass  judgment  on  the  case.  I  begin 
to  be  glad  you  and  your  wife  coerced  me  into  this 
adventure." 

"Of  course,  the  sheep  could  have  gotten  through 
the  same  bars  that  the  dog  did,"  answered  the 
Master.  "For,  didn't  Romaine  say  the  dog  not  only 
got  through,  but  dragged  three  dead  sheep  through, 
after  him,  each  night,  and  hid  them  somewhere, 
where  they  couldn't  be  found  ?  No  man  would  keep 
sheep  in  a  pen  as  open  as  all  that.  The  entire 
story  is  full  of  air-holes." 

Lad,  at  a  touch  from  his  Master,  had  lain  softly 
down  at  the  men's  feet,  beside  the  fence.  And  so, 
for  another  full  hour,  the  three  waited  there. 

The  night  was  heavily  overcast;  and,  except  for 
the  low  drone  of  distant  tree-toads  and  crickets, 
it  was  deathly  silent.  Heat  lightning,  once  in  a 
while,  played  dimly  along  the  western  horizon. 

"Lucky  for  us  that  Romaine  doesn't  keep  a  dog !" 


286  LAD:    A  DOG 

whispered  Maclay.  "He'd  have  raised  the  alarm 
before  we  got  within  a  hundred  yards  of  here." 

"He  told  my  foreman  he  gave  his  mongrel  dog 
away,  when  he  stocked  himself  with  sheep.  And 
he's  been  reading  a  lot  of  rot  about  dogs  being  non- 
utilitarian,  too.  His  dog  would  have  been  anything 
but  non-utilitarian,  to-night." 

A  touch  on  the  sleeve  from  Maclay  silenced  the 
rambling  whisper.  Through  the  stillness,  a  house 
door  shut  very  softly,  not  far  away.  An  instant 
later,  Lad  growled  throatily,  and  got  to  his  feet, 
tense  and  fiercely  eager. 

"He's  caught  Schwartz's  scent!"  whispered  the 
Master,  exultantly.  "Now,  maybe  you  understand 
why  I  made  the  man  try  to  kick  me  ?  Down,  Lad ! 
Quiet!" 

At  the  stark  command  in  the  Master's  whisper, 
Lad  dropped  to  earth  again ;  though  he  still  rumbled 
deeply  in  his  throat,  until  a  touch  from  the  Master's 
fingers  and  a  repeated  "Quiet"  silenced  him. 

The  hush  of  the  night  was  disturbed,  once  more — 
very  faintly.  This  time,  by  the  muffled  padding  of 
a  man's  bare  feet,  drawing  closer  to  the  barnyard. 
Lad  as  he  heard  it  made  as  if  to  rise.  The  Master 
tapped  him  lightly  on  the  head,  and  the  dog  sank 
to  the  ground  again,  quivering  with  hard-held  rage. 

The  clouds  had  piled  thicker.  Only  by  a  dim 
pulsing  of  far-away  heat  lightning  could  the  watch- 
ers discern  the  shadowy  outline  of  a  man,  moving 
silently  between  them  and  the  far  side  of  the  yard. 


THE  KILLER  287 

By  the  tiny  glow  of  lightning  they  saw  his  silhou- 
ette. 

By  Lad's  almost  uncontrollable  trembling  they 
knew  who  he  must  be. 

There  was  another  drowsy  stirring  of  the  sheep ; 
checked  by  the  reassuring  mumble  of  a  voice  the 
animals  seemed  to  know.  And,  except  for  the 
stealthy  motion  of  groping  feet,  the  barnyard 
seemed  as  empty  of  human  life  as  before. 

Perhaps  a  minute  later  another  sulphur-gleam  of 
lightning  revealed  the  intruder  to  the  two  men  who 
crouched  behind  the  outer  angle  of  the  fence.  He 
had  come  out  of  the  yard,  and  was  shuffling  away. 
But  he  was  fully  a  third  wider  of  shoulder  now, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  two  heads,  as  his  silhouette 
dimly  appeared  and  then  vanished. 

"See  that?"  whispered  the  Master.  "He  has  a 
sheep  slung  over  his  back.  Probably  with  a  cloth 
wrapped  around  its  head  to  keep  it  quiet.  We  will 
give  him  twenty  seconds'  start  and  then " 

"Good!"  babbled  Maclay,  in  true  buck-ague  fever 
of  excitement.  "It's  worked  out,  to  a  charm !  But 
how  in  the  blazes  can  we  track  him  through  this 
dark?  It's  as  black  as  the  inside  of  a  cow.  And 
if  we  show  the  flashlights " 

"Trust  Lad  to  track  him,"  rejoined  the  Master, 
who  had  been  slipping  a  leash  around  the  dog's  low- 
growling  throat.  "That's  what  the  old  fellow's 
here  for.  He  has  a  kick  to  punish.  He  would  fol- 


288  LAD:    A  DOG 

low  Schwartz  through  the  Sahara  desert,  if  he  had 
to.  Come  on." 

Lad,  at  a  word  from  the  Master,  sprang  to  the 
end  of  the  leash,  his  mighty  head  and  shoulders 
straining  forward.  The  Master's  reiterated 
"Quiet !"  alone  kept  him  from  giving  tongue.  And 
thus  the  trio  started  the  pursuit. 

Lad  went  in  a  geometrically  straight  line,  swerv- 
ing not  an  inch;  with  much  difficulty  held  back  to 
the  slow  walk  on  which  the  Master  insisted.  There 
was  more  than  one  reason  for  this  insistence.  Not 
only  did  the  two  men  want  to  keep  far  enough 
behind  Schwartz  to  prevent  him  from  hearing  their 
careful  steps;  but  Lad's  course  was  so  uncompro- 
misingly straight  that  it  led  them  over  a  hundred 
obstacles  and  gullies  which  required  all  sorts  of  skill 
to  negotiate. 

For  at  least  two  miles,  the  snail-like  progress  con- 
tinued; most  of  the  way  through  woods.  At  last, 
with  a  gasp,  the  Master  found  himself  wallowing 
knee-deep  in  a  bog.  Maclay,  a  step  behind  him,  also 
plunged  splashingly  into  the  soggy  mire. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  dog?"  grumpily  de- 
manded the  Judge.  "He's  led  us  into  the  Pancake 
Hollow  swamp.  Schwartz  never  in  the  world  car- 
ried a  ninety  pound  sheep  through  here." 

"Maybe  not,"  puffed  the  Master.  "But  he  has 
carried  it  over  one  of  the  half-dozen  paths  that  lead 
through  this  marsh.  Lad  is  in  too  big  a  hurry  to 
bother  about  paths.  He " 


THE  KILLER  289 

Fifty  feet  above  them,  on  a  little  mid-swamp 
knoll,  a  lantern  shone.  Apparently,  it  had  just  been 
lighted.  For  it  waxed  brighter  in  a  second  or  so. 
The  men  saw  it  and  strode  forward  at  top  speed. 
The  third  step  caused  Maclay  to  stumble  over  a 
hummock  and  land,  noisily,  on  all  fours,  in  a  mud- 
pool.  As  he  fell,  he  swore — with  a  loud  distinct- 
ness that  rang  through  the  swampy  stillnesses,  like 
a  pistol  shot. 

Instantly,  the  lantern  went  out.  And  there  was  a 
crashing  in  among  the  bushes  of  the  knoll. 

"After  him!"  yelled  Maclay,  floundering  to  his 
feet.  "He'll  escape!  And  we  have  no  real  proof 
who  he  is  or " 

The  Master,  still  ankle-high  in  sticky  mud,  saw 
the  futility  of  trying  to  catch  a  man  who,  unim- 
peded, was  running  away,  along  a  dry-ground  path. 
There  was  but  one  thing  left  to  do.  And  the  Master 
did  it. 

Loosening  the  leash  from  the  dog's  collar  he 
shouted : 

"Get  him,  Laddie!    Get  him!" 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  a  cavalry  regiment  gal- 
loping through  shallow  water.  That  and  a  queerly 
ecstatic  growl.  And  the  collie  was  gone. 

As  fast  as  possible  the  two  men  made  for  the 
base  of  the  knoll.  They  had  drawn  forth  their 
electric  torches;  and  these  now  made  the  progress 
much  swifter  and  easier. 

Nevertheless,  before  the  Master  had  set  foot  on 


290  LAD:    A  DOG 

the  first  bit  of  firm  ground,  all  pandemonium  burst 
forth  amid  the  darkness,  above  and  in  front  of  him. 

The  turmoil's  multiple  sounds  were  indescrib- 
able, blending  into  one  wild  cacophony  the  yells 
and  stamping  of  a  fear-demented  man,  the  bleats 
of  sheep,  the  tearing  of  underbrush — through  and 
above  and  under  all — a  hideous  subnote  as  of  a 
rabid  beast  worrying  its  prey. 

It  was  this  undercurrent  of  sound  which  put 
wings  on  the  tired  feet  of  Maclay  and  the  Master, 
as  they  dashed  up  the  knoll  and  into  the  path  lead- 
ing east  from  it.  It  spoke  of  unpleasant — not  ta 
say  gruesome — happenings.  So  did  the  swift 
change  of  the  victim's  yells  from  wrath  to  mortal 
terror. 

"Back  Lad!"  called  the  Master,  pantingly,  as  he 
ran.  "Back!  Let  him  alone!" 

And  as  he  cried  the  command  he  rounded  a  turn 
in  the  wooded  path. 

Prone  on  the  ground,  writhing  like  a  cut  snake 
and  frantically  seeking  to  guard  his  throat  with 
his  slashed  forearm,  sprawled  Schwartz.  Crouch- 
ing above  him — right  unwillingly  obeying  the  Mas- 
ter's belated  call — was  Lad. 

The  dog's  great  coat  was  a-bristle.  His  bared 
teeth  glinted  white  and  blood-flecked  in  the  electric 
flare.  His  soft  eyes  were  blazing. 

"Back!"  repeated  the  Master.     "Back  here!" 

Absolute  obedience  was  the  first  and  foremost  of 
The  Place's  few  simple  dog-rules.  Lad  had  learned 


THE  KILLER  291 

it  from  earliest  puppyhood.  The  collie,  still  shak- 
ing all  over  with  the  effort  of  repressing  his  fury, 
turned  slowly  and  came  over  to  his  Master.  There 
he  stood  stonily  awaiting  further  orders. 

Maclay  was  on  his  knees  beside  the  hysterically 
moaning  German  roughly  telling  him  that  the  dog 
would  do  him  no  more  damage,  and  at  the  same 
time  making  a  quick  inspection  of  the  injuries 
wrought  by  the  slashing  white  fangs  in  the  shield- 
ing arm  and  its  shoulder. 

"Get  up!"  he  now  ordered.  "You're  not  too 
badly  hurt  to  stand.  Another  minute  and  he'd  have 
gotten  through  to  your  throat,  but  your  clothes 
saved  you  from  anything  worse  than  a  few  ugly 
flesh-cuts.  Get  up!  Stop  that  yowling  and  get 
up!" 

Schwartz  gradually  lessened  his  dolorous  plaints 
under  the  stern  authority  of  Maclay's  exhortations. 
Presently  he  sat  up  nursing  his  lacerated  forearm 
and  staring  about  him.  At  sight  of  Lad  he  shud- 
dered. And  recognizing  Maclay  he  broke  into 
violent  and  fatly-accented  speech. 

"Take  witness,  Judge!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
watched  the  barnyard  to-night  and  I  saw  that 
schweinhund  steal  another  sheep.  I  followed  him 
and  when  he  got  here  he  dropped  the  sheep  and 
went  for  me.  He " 

"Very  bad,  Schwartz!"  disgustedly  reproved 
Maclay.  "Very  bad,  indeed.  You  should  have 
waited  a  minute  longer  and  thought  up  a  better 


292  LAD:    A  DOG 

one.  But  since  this  is  the  yarn  you  choose  to  tell, 
we'll  look  about  and  try  to  verify  it.  The  sheep, 
for  instance — the.  one  you  say  Lad  carried  all  the 
way  here  and  then  dropped  to  attack  you.  I  seem 
to  have  heard  a  sheep  bleating  a  few  moments  ago. 
Several  sheep  in  fact.  We'll  see  if  we  can't  find 
the  one  Lad  stole." 

Schwartz  jumped  nervously  to  his  feet. 

"Stay  where  you  are!"  Maclay  bade  him.  "We 
won't  bother  a  tired  and  injured  man  to  help  in 
our  search." 

Turning  to  the  Master,  he  added: 

"I  suppose  one  of  us  will  have  to  stand  guard 
over  him  while  the  other  one  hunts  up  the  sheep. 
Shall  I " 

"Neither  of  us  need  do  that,"  said  the  Master. 
"Lad!" 

The  collie  started  eagerly  forward,  and  Schwartz 
started  still  more  eagerly  backward. 

"Watch  him !"  commanded  the  Master.  ' Watch 
him!" 

It  was  an  order  Lad  had  learned  to  follow  in 
the  many  times  when  the  Mistress  and  the  Master 
left  him  to  guard  the  car  or  to  do  sentry  duty 
over  some  other  article  of  value.  He  understood. 
He  would  have  preferred  to  deal  with  this  enemy 
according  to  his  own  lights.  But  the  Master  had 
spoken.  So,  standing  at  view,  the  collie  looked 
iongily  at  Schwartz's  throat. 

"Keep  perfectly  still!"  the  Master  warned  the 


THE  KILLER  293 

prisoner,  "and  perhaps  he  won't  go  for  you.  Move, 
and  he  most  surely  will.  Watch  him,  Laddie!" 

Maclay  and  the  Master  left  the  captive  and  his 
guard,  and  set  forth  on  a  flashlight-illumined  tour 
of  the  knoll.  It  was  a  desolate  spot,  far  back  in 
the  swamp  and  more  than  a  mile  from  any  road; 
a  place  visited  not  three  times  a  year,  except  in 
the  shooting  season. 

In  less  than  a  half -minute  the  plaintive  ba-a-a 
of  a  sheep  guided  the  searchers  to  the  left  of  the 
knoll  where  stood  a  thick  birch-and-alder  copse. 
Around  this  they  circled  until  they  reached  a  nar- 
row opening  where  the  branch-ends,  several  feet 
above  ground,  were  flecked  with  hanks  of  wool. 

Squirming  through  the  aperture  in  single  file, 
the  investigators  found  what  they  sought. 

In  the  tight-woven  copse's  center  was  a  small 
clearing.  In  this,  was  a  rudely  wattled  pen  some 
nine  feet  square;  and  in  the  pen  were  bunched  six 
sheep. 

An  occasional  scared  bleat  from  deeper  in  the 
copse  told  the  whereabouts  of  the  sheep  Schwartz 
had  taken  from  the  barnyard  that  night  and  which 
he  had  dropped  at  Lad's  onslaught  before  he  could 
put  it  in  the  pen.  On  the  ground,  just  outside  the 
enclosure,  lay  the  smashed  lantern. 

"Sheep  on  the  hoof  are  worth  $12.50  per,  at  the 
Paterson  Market,"  mused  the  Master  aloud,  as 
Maclay  blinked  owlishly  at  the  treasure  trove. 
"There  are  $75  worth  of  sheep  in  that  pen,  and 


294  LAD:    A  DOG 

there  would  have  been  three  more  of  them  before 
morning  if  we  hadn't  butted  in  on  Herr  Schwartz's 
overtime  labors.  To  get  three  sheep  at  night,  it 
was  well  worth  his  while  to  switch  suspicion  to 
Lad  by  killing  a  fourth  sheep  every  time,  and 
mangling  its  throat  with  a  stripping-knife.  Only, 
he  mangled  it  too  efficiently.  There  was  too  much 
Kultur  about  the  mangling.  It  wasn't  ragged 
enough.  That's  what  first  gave  me  my  idea.  That, 
and  the  way  the  missing  sheep  always  vanished 
into  more  or  less  thin  air.  You  see,  he  prob- 
ably  " 

"But,"  sputtered  Maclay,  "why  four  each  night? 
Why " 

"You  saw  how  long  it  took  him  to  get  one  of 
them  here/'  replied  the  Master.  "He  didn't  dare 
to  start  in  till  the  Romaines  were  asleep,  and  he 
had  to  be  back  in  time  to  catch  Lad  at  the  slaughter 
before  Titus  got  out  of  bed.  He  wouldn't  dare 
hide  them  any  nearer  home.  Titus  has  spent  most 
of  his  time  both  days  in  hunting  for  them. 
Schwartz  was  probably  waiting  to  get  the  pen  nice 
and  full.  Then  he'd  take  a  day  off  to  visit  his 
relatives.  And  he'd  round  up  this  tidy  bunch  and 
drive  them  over  to  the  Ridgewood  road,  through 
the  woods,  and  so  on  to  the  Paterson  Market.  It 
was  a  pretty  little  scheme  all  around/' 

"But,"  urged  Maclay,  as  they  turned  back  to 
where  Lad  still  kept  his  avid  vigil,  "I  still  hold 
you  were  taking  big  chances  in  gambling  $1000 


THE  KILLER  295 

and  your  dog's  life  that  Schwartz  would  do  the 
same  thing  again  within  twenty- four  hours.  He 
might  have  waited  a  day  or  two,  till " 

"No,"  contradicted  the  Master,  "that's  just  what 
he  mightn't  do.  You  see,  I  wasn't  perfectly  sure 
whether  it  was  Schwartz  or  Romaine— or  both — 
who  were  mixed  up  in  this.  So  I  set  the  trap  at 
both  ends.  If  it  was  Romaine,  it  was  worth 
$1000  to  him  to  have  more  sheep  killed  within 
twenty-four  hours.  If  it  was  Schwartz — well, 
that's  why  I  made  him  try  to  hit  Lad  and  why  I 
made  him  try  to  kick  me.  The  dog  went  for  him 
both  times,  and  that  was  enough  to  make  Schwartz 
want  him  killed  for  his  own  safety  as  well  as  for 
revenge.  So  he  was  certain  to  arrange  another 
killing  within  the  twenty- four  hours  if  only  to  force 
me  to  shoot  Lad.  He  couldn't  steal  or  kill  sheep 
by  daylight.  I  picked  the  only  hours  he  could  do  it 
in.  If  he'd  gotten  Lad  killed,  he'd  probably  have 
invented  another  sheep-killer  dog  to  help  him  swipe 
the  rest  of  the  flock,  or  until  Romaine  decided  to 
do  the  watching.  We " 

"It  was  clever  of  you,"  cordially  admitted 
Maclay.  "Mighty  clever,  old  man!  I " 

"It  was  my  wife  who  worked  it  out,  you  know," 
the  Master  reminded  him.  "I  admit  my  own 
cleverness,  of  course,  only  (like  a  lot  of  men's 
money)  it's  all  in  my  wife's  name.  Come  on,  Lad! 
Y"ou  can  guard  Herr  Schwartz  just  as  well  by 
walking  behind  him.  We're  going  to  wind  up  the 


296  LAD:    A  DOG 

evening's  fishing  trip  by  tendering  a  surprise  party 
to  dear  genial  old  Mr.  Titus  Romaine.  I  hope  the 
flashlights  will  hold  out  long  enough  for  me  to  get 
a  clear  look  at  his  face  when  he  sees  us." 


CHAPTER  XI 
WOLF 

4 

THERE  were  but  three  collies  on  The  Place 
in  those  days.  There  was  a  long  shelf  in 
the  Master's  study  whereupon  shimmered 
and  glinted  a  rank  of  silver  cups  of  varying  sizes 
and  shapes.  Two  of  The  Place's  dogs  had  won 
them  all. 

Above  the  shelf  hung  two  huge  picture-frames. 
In  the  center  of  each  was  the  small  photograph  of 
a  collie.  Beneath  each  likeness  was  a  certified 
pedigree,  a-bristle  with  the  red-letter  names  of 
champions.  Surrounding  the  pictures  and  pedi- 
grees, the  whole  remaining  space  in  both  frames 
was  filled  with  blue  ribbons — the  very  meanest  bit 
of  silk  in  either  was  a  semi-occasional  "Reserve 
Winners" — while,  strung  along  the  tops  of  the 
frames  from  side  to  side,  ran  a  line  of  medals. 

Cups,  medals,  and  ribbons  alike  had  been  won  by 
The  Place's  two  great  collies,  Lad  and  Bruce. 
(Those  were  their  "kennel  names."  Their  official 
titles  on  the  A.  K.  C.  registry  list  were  high-sound- 
ing and  needlessly  long.) 

Lad  was  growing  old.  His  reign  on  The  Place 
297 


298  LAD:    A  DOG 

was  drawing  toward  a  benignant  close.  His 
muzzle  was  almost  snow-white  and  his  once  grace- 
ful lines  were  beginning  to  show  the  oncoming 
heaviness  of  age.  No  longer  could  he  hope  to 
hold  his  own,  in  form  and  carriage,  with  younger 
collies  at  the  local  dog-shows  where  once  he  had 
carried  all  before  him. 

Bruce — "Sunnybank  Goldsmith" — was  six  years 
Lad's  junior.  He  was  tawny  of  coat,  kingly  of 
bearing;  a  dog  without  a  fault  of  body  or  of  dis- 
position; stately  as  the  boar-hounds  that  the 
painters  of  old  used  to  love  to  depict  in  their  por- 
traits of  monarchs. 

The  Place's  third  collie  was  Lad's  son,  Wolf. 
But  neither  cup  nor  ribbon  did  Wolf  have  to  show 
as  an  excuse  for  his  presence  on  earth,  nor  would 
he  have  won  recognition  in  the  smallest  and  least 
exclusive  collie-show. 

For  Wolf  was  a  collie  only  by  courtesy.  His 
breeding  was  as  pure  as  was  any  champion's,  but 
he  was  one  of  those  luckless  types  to  be  found  in 
nearly  every  litter — a  throwback  to  some  forgotten 
ancestor  whose  points  were  all  defective.  Not  even 
the  glorious  pedigree  of  Lad,  his  father,  could  make 
Wolf  look  like  anything  more  than  he  was — a  dog 
without  a  single  physical  trait  that  followed  the 
best  collie  standards. 

In  spite  of  all  this  he  was  beautiful.  His  gold- 
and-white  coat  was  almost  as  bright  and  luxuriant 
as  any  prize-winner's.  He  had,  in  a  general  way, 


WOLF  299 

the  collie  head  and  brush.  But  an  expert,  at  the 
most  casual  glance,  would  have  noted  a  shortness 
of  nose  and  breadth  of  jaw  and  a  shape  of  ear 
and  shoulder  that  told  dead  against  him. 

The  collie  is  supposed  to  be  descended  direct 
from  the  wolf,  and  Wolf  looked  far  more  like 
his  original  ancestors  than  like  a  thoroughbred 
collie.  From  puppyhood  he  had  been  the  living 
image,  except  in  color,  of  a  timber-wolf,  and  it 
was  from  this  queer  throw-back  trait  that  he  had 
won  his  name. 

Lad  was  the  Mistress'  dog.  Bruce  was  the 
Master's.  Wolf  belonged  to  the  Boy,  having  been 
born  on  the  latter's  birthday. 

For  the  first  six  months  of  his  life  Wolf  lived 
at  The  Place  on  sufferance.  Nobody  except  the 
Boy  took  any  special  interest  in  him.  He  was  kept 
only  because  his  better-formed  brothers  had  died 
in  early  puppyhood  and  because  the  Boy,  from  the 
outset,  had  loved  him. 

At  six  months  it  was  discovered  that  he  was  a 
natural  watch-dog.  Also  that  he  never  barked  ex- 
cept to  give  an  alarm.  A  collie  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  excitable  of  all  large  dogs.  The  veriest  trifle 
will  set  him  off  into  a  thunderous  paroxysm  of 
barking.  But  Wolf,  the  Boy  noted,  never  barked 
without  strong  cause. 

He  had  the  rare  genius  for  guarding  that  so 
few  of  his  breed  possess.  For  not  one  dog  in  ten 
merits  the  title  of  watch-dog.  The  duties  that 


300  LAD:    A  DOG 

should  go  with  that  office  are  far  more  than  the 
mere  clamorous  announcement  of  a  stranger's  ap- 
proach, or  even  the  attacking  of  such  a  stranger. 

The  born  watch-dog  patrols  his  beat  once  in  so 
often  during  the  night.  At  all  times  he  must  sleep 
with  one  ear  and  one  eye  alert.  By  day  or  by 
night  he  must  discriminate  between  the  visitor 
whose  presence  is  permitted  and  the  trespasser  whose 
presence  is  not.  He  must  know  what  class  of 
undesirable  to  scare  off  with  a  growl  and  what  class 
needs  stronger  measures.  He  must  also  know  to 
the  inch  the  boundaries  of  his  own  master's  land. 

Few  of  these  things  can  be  taught;  all  of  them 
must  be  instinctive.  Wolf  had  been  born  with 
them.  Most  dogs  are  not. 

His  value  as  a  watch-dog  gave  Wolf  a  settled 
position  of  his  own  on  The  Place.  Lad  was  growing 
old  and  a  little  deaf.  He  slept,  at  night,  under  the 
piano  in  the  music-room.  Bruce  was  worth  too 
much  money  to  be  left  at  large  in  the  night  time 
for  any  clever  dog-thief  to  steal.  So  he  slept  in 
the  study.  Rex,  a  huge  mongrel,  was  tied  up  at 
night,  at  the  lodge,  a  furlong  away.  Thus  Wolf 
alone  was  left  on  guard  at  the  house.  The  piazza 
was  his  sentry-box.  From  this  shelter  he  was  wont 
to  set  forth  three  or  four  times  a  night,  in  all  sorts 
of  weather,  to  make  his  rounds. 

The  Place  covered  twenty-five  acres.  It  ran  from 
the  high-road,  a  furlong  above  the  house,  down  to 
the  lake  that  bordered  it  on  two  sides.  On  the 


WOLF  301 

third  side  was  the  forest.  Boating-parties,  late  at 
night,  had  a  pleasant  way  of  trying  to  raid  the 
lakeside  apple-orchard.  Tramps  now  and  then 
strayed  down  the  drive  from  the  main  road. 
Prowlers,  crossing  the  woods,  sometimes  sought  to 
use  The  Place's  sloping  lawn  as  a  short  cut  to  the 
turnpike  below  the  falls. 

For  each  and  all  of  these  intruders  Wolf  had 
an  ever-ready  welcome.  A  whirl  of  madly  patter- 
ing feet  through  the  dark,  a  snarling  growl  far 
down  in  the  throat,  a  furry  shape  catapulting  into 
the  air — and  the  trespasser  had  his  choice  between 
a  scurrying  retreat  or  a  double  set  of  white  fangs 
in  the  easiest-reached  part  of  his  anatomy. 

The  Boy  was  inordinately  proud  of  his  pet's 
watchdog  prowess.  He  was  prouder  yet  of  Wolf's 
almost  incredible  sharpness  of  intelligence,  his 
quickness  to  learn,  his  knowledge  of  word  mean- 
ing, his  zest  for  romping,  his  perfect  obedience, 
the  tricks  he  had  taught  himself  without  human 
tutelage — in  short,  all  the  things  that  were  a  sign 
of  the  brain  he  had  inherited  from  Lad. 

But  none  of  these  talents  overcame  the  sad  fact 
that  Wolf  was  not  a  show  dog  and  that  he  looked 
positively  underbred  and  shabby  alongside  of  his 
sire  or  of  Bruce.  Which  rankled  at  the  Boy's  heart ; 
even  while  loyalty  to  his  adored  pet  would  not  let 
him  confess  to  himself  or  to  anyone  else  that  Wolf 
was  not  the  most  flawlessly  perfect  dog  on  earth. 

Under-sized  (for  a  collie),  slim,  graceful,  fierce, 


302  LAD:    A  DOG 

affectionate,  Wolf  was  the  Boy's  darling,  and  he 
was  Lad's  successor  as  official  guardian  of  The 
Place.  But  all  his  youthful  life,  thus  far,  had 
brought  him  nothing  more  than  this — while  Lad 
and  Bruce  had  been  winning  prize  after  prize  at 
one  local  dog  show  after  another  within  a  radius  of 
thirty  mites. 

The  Boy  was  duly  enthusiastic  over  the  winning 
of  each  trophy;  but  always,  for  days  thereafter, 
he  was  more  than  usually  attentive  to  Wolf  to  make 
up  for  his  pet's  dearth  of  prizes. 

Once  or  twice  the  Boy  had  hinted,  in  a  veiled, 
tentative  way,  that  young  Wolf  might  perhaps  win 
something,  too,  if  he  were  allowed  to  go  to  a 
show.  The  Master,  never  suspecting  what  lay  be- 
hind the  cautious  words,  would  always  laugh  in 
good-natured  derision,  or  else  he  would  point  in 
silence  to  Wolf's  head  and  then  to  Lad's. 

The  Boy  knew  enough  about  collies  to  carry  the 
subject  no  further.  For  even  his  eyes  of  devotion 
could  not  fail  to  mark  the  difference  in  aspect  be- 
tween his  dog  and  the  two  prize-winners. 

One  July  morning  both  Lad  and  Bruce  went 
through  an  hour  of  anguish.  Both  of  them,  one 
after  the  other,  were  plunged  into  a  bath-tub  full  of 
warm  water  and  naphtha  soap-suds  and  Lux;  and 
were  scrubbed  right  unmercifully,  after  which  they 
were  rubbed  and  curried  and  brushed  for  another 
hour  until  their  coats  shone  resplendent.  All  day, 


WOLF  303 

at  intervals,  the  brushing  and  combing  were  kept 
::p. 

Lad  was  indignant  at  such  treatment,  and  he 
took  no  pains  to  hide  his  indignation.  He  knew 
perfectly  well,  from  the  undue  attention,  that  a 
dog  show  was  at  hand.  But  not  for  a  year  or  more 
had  Le  himself  been  made  ready  for  one.  His  lake 
baths  and  his  daily  casual  brushing  at  the  Mistress' 
hands  had  been,  in  that  time,  his  only  form  of 
grooming.  He  had  thought  himself  graduated  for- 
ever from  the  nuisance  of  going  to  shows. 

"What's  the  idea  of  dolling  up  old  Laddie  like 
that?"  asked  the  Boy,  as  he  came  in  for  luncheon 
and  found  the  Mistress  busy  with  comb  and  dandy- 
brush  over  the  unhappy  dog. 

"For  the  Fourth  of  July  Red  Cross  Dog  Show 
at  Ridgewood  to-morrow,"  answered  his  mother, 
looking  up,  a  little  flushed  from  her  exertions. 

"But  I  thought  you  and  Dad  said  last  year  he 
was  too  old  to  show  any  more,"  ventured  the  Bov. 

"This  time  is  different,"  said  the  Mistress.     "It1-. 
a  specialty  show,  you  see,  and  there  is  a  cup  offere^ 
for  'the  best  veteran  dog  of  any  recognized  bref  < 
Isn't  that  fine?     We  didn't  hear  of  the  Veter 
Cup  till  Dr.  Hooper  telephoned  to  us  about  it  t" 
morning.    So  we're  getting  Lad  ready.    There  co* 
be  any  other  veteran  as  splendid  as  he  is." 

"No,"  agreed  the  Boy,  dully,  "I  suppose  not.' 

He  went  into  the  dining-room,  surreptitiously 
helped  himself  to  a  handful  of  lump-sugar  and 


304  LAD:    A  DOG 

passed  on  out  to  the  veranda.  Wolf  was  sprawled 
half-asleep  on  the  driveway  lawn  in  the  sun. 

The  dog's  wolf  like  brush  began  to  thump  against 
the  shaven  grass.  Then,  as  the  Boy  stood  on  the 
veranda  edge  and  snapped  his  fingers,  Wolf  got 
up  from  his  soft  resting-place  and  started  toward 
him,  treading  mincingly  and  with  a  sort  of 
swagger,  his  slanting  eyes  half  shut,  his  mouth 
a-grin. 

"You  know  I've  got  sugar  in  my  pocket  as  well 
as  if  you  saw  it/'  said  the  Boy.  "Stop  where  you 


are." 


Though  the  Boy  accompanied  his  order  with  no 
gesture  nor  change  of  tone,  the  dog  stopped  dead 
short  ten  feet  away. 

"Sugar  is  bad  for  dogs,"  went  on  the  Boy.  "It 
does  things  to  their  teeth  and  their  digestions. 
Didn't  anybody  ever  tell  you  that,  Wolfie?" 

The  young  dog's  grin  grew  wider.  His  slanting 
eyes  closed  to  mere  glittering  slits.  He  fidgeted  a 
little,  his  tail  wagging  fast. 

"But  I  guess  a  dog's  got  to  have  some  kind  of 
consolation  purse  when  he  can't  go  to  a  show," 
resumed  the  Boy.  "Catch !" 

As  he  spoke  he  suddenly  drew  a  lump  of  sugar 
from  his  pocket  and,  with  the  same  motion,  tossed 
it  in  the  direction  of  Wolf.  Swift  as  was  the 
Boy's  action,  Wolf's  eye  was  still  quicker.  Spring- 
ing high  in  air,  the  dog  caught  the  flung  cube  of 
sugar  as  it  flew  above  him  and  to  one  side.  A 


WOLF  305 

second  and  a  third  lump  were  caught  as  deftly  as 
the  first. 

Then  the  Boy  took  from  his  pocket  the  fourth 
and  last  lump.  Descending  the  steps,  he  put  his 
left  hand  across  Wolf's  eyes.  With  his  right  he 
flipped  the  lump  of  sugar  into  a  clump  of  shrub- 
bery. 

"Find  it!"  he  commanded,  lifting  the  blindfold 
from  the  eyes  of  his  pet. 

Wolf  darted  hither  and  thither,  stopped  once  or 
twice  to  sniff,  then  began  to  circle  the  nearer 
stretch  of  lawn,  nose  to  ground.  In  less  than  two 
minutes  he  merged  from  the  shrubbery  placidly 
crunching  the  sugar-lump  between  his  mighty  jaws. 

"And  yet  they  say  you  aren't  fit  to  be  shown!" 
exclaimed  the  Boy,  fondling  the  dog's  ears.  "Gee, 
but  I'd  give  two  years'  growth  if  you  could  have 
a  cup!  You  deserve  one,  all  right;  if  only  those 
judges  had  sense  enough  to  study  a  collie's  brain 
as  well  as  the  outside  of  his  head!" 

Wolf  ran  his  nose  into  the  cupped  palm  and 
whined.  From  the  tone  underlying  the  words,  he 
knew  the  Boy  was  unhappy,  and  he  wanted  to  be 
of  help. 

The  Boy  went  into  the  house  again  to  find  his 
parents  sitting  down  to  lunch.  Gathering  his 
courage  in  both  hands,  he  asked: 

"Is  there  going  to  be  a  Novice  Class  for  collies 
at  Ridgewood,  Dad?" 


S06  LAD:    A  DOG 

"Why,  yes/*  said  the  Master,  "I  suppose  so. 
There  always  is." 

"Do — do  they  give  cups  for  the  Novice  Class?" 
inquired  the  Boy,  with  studied  carelessness. 

"Of  course  they  don't,"  said  the  Master,  adding 
reminiscently,  "though  the  first  time  we  showed 
Lad  we  put  him  in  the  Novice  Class  and  he  won 
the  blue  ribbon  there,  so  we  had  to  go  into  the 
Winners'  Class  afterward.  He  got  the  Winner's 
Cup,  you  remember.  So,  indirectly,  the  Novice 
Class  won  him  a  cup." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Boy,  not  at  all  interested  in 
this  bit  of  ancient  history.  Then  speaking  very 
fast,  he  went  on : 

"Well,  a  ribbon's  better  than  nothing!  Dad, 
will  you  do  me  a  favor?  Will  you  let  me  enter 
Wolfie  for  the  Novice  Class  to-morrow?  I'll  pay 
the  fee  out  of  my  allowance.  Will  you,  Dad?" 

The  Master  looked  at  his  son  in  blank  amaze-, 
ment.  Then  he  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
loudly.  The  Boy  flushed  crimson  and  bit  his  lips. 

"Why,  dear!"  hurriedly  interposed  the  Mistress, 
noting  her  son's  discomfiture.  "You  wouldn't 
want  Wolf  to  go  there  and  be  beaten  by  a  lot  of 
dogs  that  haven't  half  his  brains  or  prettiness !  It 
wouldn't  be  fair  or  kind  to  Wolf.  He's  so  clever, 
he'd  know  in  a  moment  what  was  happening.  He'd 
know  he  was  beaten.  Nearly  all  dogs  do.  No,  it 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  him." 

"There's  a  'mutt'  class  among  the  specials,  Dr. 


WOLF  307 

Hopper  says,"  put  in  the  Master,  jocosely.  "You 
might " 

"Wolf's  not  a  mutt!"  flashed  the  Boy,  hotly. 
"He's  no  more  of  a  mutt  than  Bruce  or  Lad,  or 
Grey  Mist,  or  Southport  Sample,  or  any  of  the 
best  ones.  He  has  as  good  blood  as  all  of  them. 
Lad's  his  father,  and  Squire  of  Tytton  was  his 
grandfather,  and  Wishaw  Clinker  was  his " 

"I'm  sorry,  son,"  interposed  the  Master,  catch- 
ing his  wife's  eye  and  dropping  his  tone  of  banter. 
"I  apologize  to  you  and  Wolf.  He's  not  a  'mutt/ 
There's  no  better  blood  in  colliedom  than  his,  on 
both  sides.  But  Mother  is  right.  You'd  only  be 
putting  him  up  to  be  beaten,  and  you  wouldn't 
like  that.  He  hasn't  a  single  point  that  isn't  hope- 
lessly bad  from  a  judge's  view.  We've  never  taken 
a  loser  to  a  show  from  The  Place.  You  don't 
want  us  to  begin  now,  do  you  ?" 

"He  has  more  brains  that  any  dog  alive,  except 
Lad!"  declared  the  Boy,  sullenly.  "That  ought  to 
count." 

"It  ought  to,"  agreed  the  Mistress,  soothingly, 
"and  I  wish  it  did.  If  it  did,  I  know  he'd  win." 

"It  makes  me  sick  to  see  a  bushel  of  cups  go 
to  dogs  that  don't  know  enough  to  eat  their  own 
dinners,"  sn6rted  the  Boy.  "I'm  not  talking  about 
Lad  and  Bruce,  but  the  thoroughbreds  that  are 
brought  up  in  kennels  and  that  have  all  their  sense 
sacrificed  for  points.  Why,  Wolf's  the  cleverest 


308  LAD:    A  DOG 

— best — and  hell  never  even  have  one  cup  to  show 
for  it.  He " 

He  choked,  and  began  to  eat  at  top  speed.  The 
Master  and  the  Mistress  looked  at  each  other  and 
said  nothing.  They  understood  their  son's  chagrin, 
as  only  a  dog-lover  could  understand  it.  The 
Mistress  reached  out  and  patted  the  Boy  gently 
on  the  shoulder. 

Next  morning,  directly  after  early  breakfast, 
Lad  and  Bruce  were  put  into  the  tonneau  of  the 
car.  The  Mistress  and  the  Master  and  the  Boy 
climbed  in,  and  the  twelve-mile  journey  to  Ridge- 
wood  began. 

Wolf,  left  to  guard  The  Place,  watched  the  de- 
parting show-goers  until  the  car  turned  out  of  the 
gate,  a  furlong  above.  Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  curled 
up  on  the  porch  mat,  his  nose  between  his  snowy 
little  paws,  and  prepared  for  a  day  of  loneliness. 

The  Red  Cross  dog  show,  that  Fourth  of  July, 
was  a  triumph  for  The  Place. 

Bruce  won  ribbon  after  ribbon  in  the  collie 
division,  easily  taking  "Winners"  at  the  last,  and 
thus  adding  another  gorgeous  silver  cup  to  his  col- 
lection. Then,  the  supreme  event  of  the  day — 
"Best  dog  in  the  show" — was  called.  And  the 
winners  of  each  breed  were  led  into  the  ring.  The 
judges  scanned  and  handled  the  group  of  sixteen 
for  barely  five  minutes  before  awarding  to  Bruce 
the  dark-blue  rosette  and  the  "Best  Dog"  cup. 

The  crowd  around  the  ring's  railing  applauded 


WOLF  309 

loudly.  But  they  applauded  still  more  loudly  a 
little  later,  when,  after  a  brief  survey  of  nine  aged 
thoroughbreds,  the  judge  pointed  to  Lad,  who  was 
standing  like  a  mahogany  statue  at  one  end  of 
the  ring. 

These  nine  dogs  of  various  breeds  had  all  been 
famed  prize-winners  in  their  time.  And  above  all 
the  rest,  Lad  was  adjudged  worthy  of  the  "veteran 
cup!"  There  was  a  haze  of  happy  tears  in  the 
Mistress*  eyes  as  she  led  him  from  the  ring.  It 
seemed  a  beautiful  climax  for  his  grand  old  life. 
She  wiped  her  eyes,  unashamed,  whispering  praise 
the  while  to  her  stately  dog. 

"Why  don't  you  trundle  your  car  into  the  ring?" 
one  disgruntled  exhibitor  demanded  of  the  Mis- 
tress. "Maybe  you'd  win  a  cup  with  that,  too. 
You  seem  to  have  gotten  one  for  everything  else 
you  brought  along." 

It  was  a  celebration  evening  for  the  two  prize 
dogs,  when  they  got  home,  but  everybody  was  tired 
from  the  day's  events,  and  by  ten  o'clock  the  house 
was  dark.  Wolf,  on  his  veranda  mat,  alone  of  all 
The  Place's  denizens,  was  awake. 

Vaguely  Wolf  knew  the  other  dogs  had  done 
some  praiseworthy  thing.  He  would  have  known 
it,  if  for  no  other  reason,  from  the  remorseful  hug 
the  Boy  had  given  him  before  going  to  bed. 

Well,  some  must  win  honors  and  petting  and  the 
right  to  sleep  indoors ;  while  others  must  plod  along 
at  the  only  work  they  were  fit  for,  and  must  sleep 


310  LAD:    A  DOG 

out,  in  thunderstorm  or  clear,  in  heat  or  freezing 
cold.  That  was  life.  Being  only  a  dog,  Wolf  was 
too  wise  to  complain  of  life.  He  took  things  as  he 
found  them,  making  the  very  best  of  his  share. 

He  snoozed,  now,  in  the  warm  darkness.  Two 
hours  later  he  got  up,  stretched  himself  lazily  fore 
and  aft,  collie-fashion,  and  trotted  forth  for  the 
night's  first  patrol  of  the  grounds. 

A  few  minutes  afterward  he  was  skirting  the 
lake  edge  at  the  foot  of  the  lawn,  a  hundred  yards 
below  the  house.  The  night  was  pitch  dark,  ex- 
cept for  pulses  of  heat-lightning,  now  and  then,  far 
to  westward.  Half  a  mile  out  on  the  lake  two 
men  in  an  anchored  scow  were  cat-fishing. 

A  small  skiff  was  slipping  along  very  slowly,  not 
fifty  feet  off  shore. 

Wolf  did  not  give  the  skiff  a  second  glance. 
Boats  were  no  novelty  to  him,  nor  did  they  interest 
him  in  the  least — except  when  they  showed  signs 
of  running  ashore  somewhere  along  his  beat. 

This  skiff  was  not  headed  for  land,  but  was 
paralleling  the  shore.  It  crept  along  at  a  snail-pace 
and  in  dead  silence.  A  man,  its  only  occupant,  sat 
at  the  oars,  scarcely  moving  them  as  he  kept  his 
boat  in  motion. 

A  dog  is  ridiculously  near-sighted.  More  so 
than  almost  any  other  beast.  Keen  hearing  and 
keener  scent  are  its  chief  guides.  At  three  hundred 
yards'  distance  it  cannot,  by  eye,  recognize  its 
master,  nor  tell  him  from  a  stranger.  But  at  close 


WOLF  311 

quarters,  even  in  the  darkest  night,  a  dog's  vision 
is  far  more  piercing  and  accurate  than  man's  under 
like  conditions. 

Wolf  thus  saw  the  skiff  and  its  occupant,  while 
he  himself  was  still  invisible.  The  boat  was  no  con- 
cern of  his ;  so  he  trotted  on  to  the  far  end  of  The 
Place,  where  the  forest  joined  the  orchard. 

On  his  return  tour  of  the  lake  edge  he  saw  the 
skiff  again.  It  had  shifted  its  direction  and  was 
now  barely  ten  feet  off  shore — so  near  to  the  bank 
that  one  of  the  oars  occasionally  grated  on  the 
pebbly  bottom.  The  oarsman  was  looking  intently 
toward  the  house. 

Wolf  paused,  uncertain.  The  average  watchdog, 
his  attention  thus  attracted,  would  have  barked. 
But  Wolf  knew  the  lake  was  public  property.  Boats 
were  often  rowed  as  close  to  shore  as  this  with- 
out intent  to  trespass.  It  was  not  the  skiff  that 
caught  Wolf's  attention  as  he  paused  there  on  the 
brink,  it  was  the  man's  furtive  scrutiny  of  the 
house. 

A  pale  flare  of  heat-lightning  turned  the  world, 
momentarily,  from  jet  black  to  a  dim  sulphur-color. 
The  boatman  saw  Wolf  standing,  alert  and  sus- 
picious, among  the  lakeside  grasses,  not  ten  feet 
away.  He  started  slightly,  and  a  soft,  throaty 
growl  from  the  dog  answered  him. 

The  man  seemed  to  take  the  growl  as  a  challenge, 
and  to  accept  it  He  reached  into  his  pocket  and 
drew  something  out.  When  the  next  faint  glow  of 


312  LAD:    A  DOG 

lightning  illumined  the  shore,  the  man  lifted  the 
thing  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket  and  hurled  it 
at  Wolf. 

With  all  the  furtive  swiftness  bred  in  his  wolf- 
ancestry,  the  dog  shrank  to  one  side,  readily  dodg- 
ing the  missile,  which  struck  the  lawn  just  behind 
him.  Teeth  bared  in  a  ferocious  snarl,  Wolf 
dashed  forward  through  the  shallow  water  toward 
the  skiff. 

But  the  man  apparently  had  had  enough  of  the 
business.  He  rowed  off  with  long  strokes  into  deep 
water,  and,  once  there,  he  kept  on  rowing  until  dis- 
tance and  darkness  hid  him. 

Wolf  stood,  chest  deep  in  water,  listening  to  the 
far-off  oar-strokes  until  they  died  away.  He  was 
not  fool  enough  to  swim  in  pursuit;  well  knowing 
that  a  swimming  dog  is  worse  than  helpless  against 
a  boatman. 

Moreover,  the  intruder  had  been  scared  away. 
That  was  all  which  concerned  Wolf.  He  turned 
back  to  shore.  His  vigil  was  ended  for  another 
few  hours.  It  was  time  to  take  up  his  nap  where 
he  had  left  off. 

Before  he  had  taken  two  steps,  his  sensitive 
nostrils  were  full  of  the  scent  of  raw  meat.  There, 
on  the  lawn  ahead  of  him,  lay  a  chunk  of  beef  as 
big  as  a  fist.  This,  then,  was  what  the  boatman  had 
thrown  at  him! 

Wolf  pricked  up  his  ears  in  appreciation,  and  his 
brush  began  to  vibrate.  Trespassers  had  once  or 


WOLF  313 

twice  tried  to  stone  him,  but  this  was  the  first  time 
any  of  them  had  pelted  him  with  delicious  raw 
beef.  Evidently,  Lad  and  Bruce  were  not  the  only 
collies  on  The  Place  to  receive  prizes  that  day. 

Wolf  stooped  over  the  meat,  sniffed  at  it,  then 
caught  it  up  between  his  jaws. 

Now,  a  dog  is  the  easiest  animal  alive  to  poison, 
just  as  a  cat  is  the  hardest,  for  a  dog  will  usually 
bolt  a  mouthful  of  poisoned  meat  without  pausing 
to  chew  or  otherwise  investigate  it.  A  cat,  on  the 
contrary,  smells  and  tastes  everything  first  and 
chews  it  scientifically  before  swallowing  it.  The 
slightest  unfamiliar  scent  or  flavor  warns  her  to 
sheer  off  from  the  feast. 

So  the  average  dog  would  have  gulped  this  tooth- 
some windfall  in  a  single  swallow;  but  Wolf  was 
not  the  average  dog.  No  collie  is,  and  Wolf  was 
still  more  like  his  eccentric  forefathers  of  the  wild- 
erness than  are  most  collies. 

He  lacked  the  reasoning  powers  to  make  him 
suspicious  of  this  rich  gift  from  a  stranger,  but  a 
queer  personal  trait  now  served  him  just  as  well. 

Wolf  was  an  epicure;  he  always  took  three  times 
as  long  to  empty  his  dinner  dish  as  did  the  other 
dogs,  for  instead  of  gobbling  his  meal,  as  they  did, 
he  was  wont  to  nibble  affectedly  at  each  morsel, 
gnawing  it  slowly  into  nothingness;  and  all  the 
time  showing  a  fussily  dainty  relish  of  it  that  used 
to  delight  the  Boy  and  send  guests  into  peals  of 
laughter. 


LAD:    A  DOG 


This  odd  little  trait  that  had  caused  so  much 
ridicule  now  saved  Wolf's  life. 

He  carried  the  lump  of  beef  gingerly  up  to  the 
veranda,  laid  it  down  on  his  mat,  and  prepared  to 
revel  in  his  chance  banquet  after  his  own  deliberate 
fashion. 

Holding  the  beef  between  his  forepaws,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  devour  it  in  mincing  little  squirrel-bites. 
About  a  quarter  of  the  meat  had  disappeared  when 
Wolf  became  aware  that  his  tongue  smarted  and 
that  his  throat  was  sore;  also  that  the  interior  of 
the  meat-ball  had  a  ranky  pungent  odor,  very  differ- 
ent from  the  heavenly  fragrance  of  its  outside  and 
not  at  all  appetizing. 

He  looked  down  at  the  chunk,  rolled  it  over  with 
his  nose,  surveyed  it  again,  then  got  up  and  moved 
away  from  it  in  angry  disgust. 

Presently  he  forgot  his  disappointment  in  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  very,  very  ill.  His  tongue 
and  throat  no  longer  burned,  but  his  body  and 
brain  seemed  full  of  hot  lead  that  weighed  a  ton. 
He  felt  stupid,  and  too  weak  to  stir.  A  great 
drowsiness  gripped  him. 

With  a  grunt  of  discomfort  and  utter  fatigue,  he 
slumped  down  on  the  veranda  floor  to  sleep  off  his 
sick  lassitude.  After  that,  for  a  time,  nothing 
mattered. 

For  perhaps  an  hour  Wolf  lay  sprawling  there, 
dead  to  his  duty,  and  to  everything  else.  Then 
faintly,  through  the  fog  of  dullness  that  enwrapped 


WOLF  315 

his  brain,  came  a  sound — a  sound  he  had  long  ago 
learned  to  listen  for.  The  harshly  scraping  noise 
of  a  boat's  prow  drawn  up  on  the  pebbly  shore  at 
the  foot  of  the  lawn. 

Instinct  tore  through  the  poison  vapors  and 
roused  the  sick  dog.  He  lifted  his  head.  It  was 
strangely  heavy  and  hard  to  lift. 

The  sound  was  repeated  as  the  prow  was  pulled 
farther  up  on  the  bank.  Then  came  the  crunch  of 
a  human  foot  on  the  waterside  grass. 

Heredity  and  training  and  lifelong  fidelity  took 
control  of  the  lethargic  dog,  dragging  him  to  his 
feet  and  down  the  veranda  steps  through  no  voli- 
tion of  his  own. 

Every  motion  tired  him.  He  was  dizzy  and 
nauseated.  He  craved  sleep;  but  as  he  was  just  a 
thoroughbred  dog  and  not  a  wise  human,  he  did 
not  stop  to  think  up  good  reasons  why  he  should 
shirk  his  duty  because  he  did  not  feel  like  perform- 
ing it. 

To  the  brow  of  the  hill  he  trotted — slowly, 
heavily,  shakily.  His  sharp  powers  of  hearing  told 
him  the  trespasser  had  left  his  boat  and  had  taken 
one  or  two  stealthy  steps  up  the  slope  of  lawn  to- 
ward the  house. 

And  now  a  puff  of  west  wind  brought  Wolf's 
sense  of  smell  into  action.  A  dog  remembers  odors 
as  humans  remember  faces.  And  the  breeze  bore  to 
him  the  scent  of  the  same  man  who  had  flurg 


316  LAD:    A  DOG 

ashore  that  bit  of  meat  which  had  caused  all  his 
suffering. 

He  had  caught  the  man's  scent  an  hour  earlier, 
as  he  had  stood  sniffing  at  the  boat  ten  feet  away 
from  him.  The  same  scent  had  been  on  the  meat 
the  man  had  handled. 

And  now,  having  played  such  a  cruel  trick  on 
him,  the  joker  was  actually  daring  to  intrude  on 
The  Place! 

A  gust  of  resentful  rage  pierced  the  dullness  of 
Wolf's  brain  and  sent  a  thrill  of  fierce  energy 
through  him.  For  the  moment  this  carried  him  out 
of  his  sick  self  and  brought  back  all  his  former 
zest  as  a  watch-dog. 

Down  the  hill,  like  a  furry  whirlwind,  flew  Wolf, 
every  tooth  bared,  his  back  a-bristle  from  neck  to 
tail.  Now  he  was  well  within  sight  of  the  intruder. 
He  saw  the  man  pausing  to  adjust  something  to 
one  of  his  hands.  Then,  before  this  could  be  ac- 
complished, Wolf  saw  him  pause  and  stare  through 
the  darkness  as  the  wild  onrush  of  the  dog's  feet 
struck  upon  his  hearing. 

Another  instant  and  Wolf  was  near  enough  to 
spring.  Out  of  the  blackness  he  launched  himself, 
straight  for  the  trespasser's  face.  The  man  saw 
the  dim  shape  hurtling  through  the  air  toward  him* 
He  dropped  what  he  was  carrying  and  flung  up 
both  hands  to  guard  his  neck. 

At  that,  he  was  none  too  soon,  for  just  as  the 


WOLF  317 

thief's  palm  reached  his  own  throat,  Wolf's  teeth 
met  in  the  fleshy  part  of  the  hand. 

Silent,  in  agony,  the  man  beat  at  the  dog  with 
his  free  hand ;  but  an  attacking  collie  is  hard  to  lo- 
cate in  the  darkness.  A  bulldog  will  secure  a  grip 
and  will  hang  on ;  a  collie  is  everywhere  at  once. 

Wolf's  snapping  jaws  had  already  deserted  the 
robber's  mangled  hand  and  slashed  the  man's  left 
shoulder  to  the  bone.  Then  the  dog  made  another 
furious  lunge  for  the  face. 

Down  crashed  the  man,  losing  his  balance  under 
the  heavy  impact;  Wolf  atop  of  him.  To  guard 
his  throat,  the  man  rolled  over  on  his  face,  kick- 
ing madly  at  the  dog,  and  reaching  back  for  his 
own  hip-pocket.  Half  in  the  water  and  half  on  the 
bank,  the  two  rolled  and  thrashed  and  struggled — 
the  man  panting  and  wheezing  in  mortal  terror; 
the  dog  growling  in  a  hideous,  snarling  fashion  as 
might  a  wild  animal. 

The  thief's  torn  left  hand  found  a  grip  on  Wolf's 
fur-armored  throat.  He  shoved  the  fiercely  writh- 
ing dog  backward,  jammed  a  pistol  against  Wolf's 
head,  and  pulled  the  trigger! 

The  dog  relaxed  his  grip  and  tumbled  in  a  hud- 
dled heap  on  the  brink.  The  man  staggered,  gasp- 
ing, to  his  feet;  bleeding,  disheveled,  his  clothes 
torn  and  mud-coated. 

The  echoes  of  the  shot  were  still  reverberating 
among  the  lakeside  hills.  Several  of  the  house's 


318  LAD:    A  DOG 

dark  windows  leaped  into  sudden  light — then  more 
windows  in  another  room — and  in  another. 

The  thief  swore  roundly.  His  night's  work  was 
ruined.  He  bent  to  his  skiff  and  shoved  it  into  the 
water;  then  he  turned  to  grope  for  what  he  had 
dropped  on  the  lawn  when  Wolf's  unexpected  at- 
tack had  interfered  with  his  plans. 

As  he  did  so,  something  seized  him  by  the  ankle. 
In  panic  terror  the  man  screamed  aloud  and  jumped 
into  the  water,  then,  peering  back,  he  saw  what  had 
happened. 

Wolf,  sprawling  and  unable  to  stand,  had  reached 
forward  from  where  he  lay  and  had  driven  his 
teeth  for  the  last  time  into  his  foe. 

The  tl^ef  raised  his  pistol  again  and  fired  at  the 
prostrate  dog,  then  he  clambered  into  his  boat  and 
rowed  off  with  frantic  speed,  just  as  a  salvo  of 
barks  told  that  Lad  and  Bruce  had  been  released 
from  the  house ;  they  came  charging  down  the  lawn, 
the  Master  at  their  heels. 

But  already  the  quick  oar-beats  were  growing 
distant;  and  the  gloom  had  blotted  out  any  chance 
of  seeing  or  following  the  boat. 

Wolf  lay  on  his  side,  half  in  and  half  out  of 
the  water.  He  could  not  rise,  as  was  his  custom, 
to  meet  the  Boy,  who  came  running  up,  close  be- 
hind the  Master  and  valorously  grasping  a  target 
rifle;  but  the  dog  wagged  his  tail  in  feeble  greet- 
ing, then  he  looked  out  over  the  black  lake,  and 
snarled. 


WOLF  319 

The  bullet  had  grazed  Wolfs  scalp  and  then  had 
passed  along  the  foreleg;  scarring  and  numbing  it. 
No  damage  had  been  done  that  a  week's  good  nurs- 
ing would  not  set  right. 

The  marks  in  the  grass  and  the  poisoned  meat 
on  the  porch  told  their  own  tale ;  so  did  the  neat  kit 
of  burglar  tools  and  a  rubber  glove  found  near  the 
foot  of  the  lawn;  and  then  the  telephone  was  put 
to  work. 

At  dawn,  a  man  in  torn  and  muddy  clothes,  called 
at  the  office  of  a  doctor  three  miles  away  to  be 
treated  for  a  half-dozen  dog-bites  received,  he  said, 
from  a  pack  of  stray  curs  he  had  met  on  the  turn- 
pike. By  the  time  his  wounds  were  dressed,  the 
sheriff  and  two  deputies  had  arrived  to  take  him 
in  charge.  In  his  pockets  were  a  revolver,  with 
two  cartridges  fired,  and  the  mate  of  the  rubber 
glove  he  had  left  on  The  Place's  lawn. 

"You — you  wouldn't  let  Wclfie  go  to  any  show 
and  win  a  cup  for  himself,"  half-sobbed  the  Boy, 
as  the  Master  worked  over  the  injured  dog's  wound, 
"but  he's  saved  you  from  losing  all  the  cups  the 
other  dogs  ever  won!" 

Three  days  later  the  Master  came  home  from  a 
trip  to  the  city.  He  went  directly  to  the  Boy's 
room.  There  on  a  rug  lounged  the  convalescent 
Wolf,  the  Boy  sitting  beside  him,  stroking  the  dog's 
bandaged  head. 

"Wolf,"  said  the  Master,  solemnly,  "I've  been 


320  LAD:    A  DOG 

talking  about  you  to  some  people  I  know.  And  we 
all  agree  -  " 

"Agree  what?"  asked  the  Boy,  looking  up  in  mild 
curiosity. 

The  Master  cleared  his  throat  and  continued: 

"We  agree  that  the  trophy-shelf  in  my  study 
hasn't  enough  cups  on  it.  So  I've  decided  to  add 
still  Another  to  the  collection.  Want  to  see  it,  son  ?" 

From  behind  his  back  the  Master  produced  a 
gleaming  silver  cup  —  one  of  the  largest  and  most 
ornate  the  Boy  had  ever  seen  —  larger  even  than 
Bruce's  "Best  Dog"  cup. 

The  Boy  took  it  from  his  father's  outstretched 
hand. 

"Who  won  this?"  he  asked.  "And  what  for? 
Didn't  we  get  all  the  cups  that  were  coming  to  us 
at  the  shows.  Is  it  -  " 

The  Boy's  voice  trailed  away  into  a  gurgle  of  be- 
wildered rapture.  He  had  caught  sight  of  the  let- 
tering on  the  big  cup.  And  now,  his  arm  around 
Wolf,  he  read  the  inscription  aloud,  stammering 
with  flight  as  he  blurted  out  the  words: 


CUP.    WON  BY  WOLF,  AGAINST  ALL 
COMERS/' 


CHAPTER  XII 
IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE 

NOW,  this  is  the  true  tale  of  Lad's  last  great 
adventure. 

For  more  years  than  he  could  remember, 
Lad  had  been  king.  He  had  ruled  at  The  Place, 
from  boundary-fence  to  boundary- fence,  from  high- 
way to  Lake.  He  had  had,  as  subjects,  many  a 
thoroughbred  collie;  and  many  a  lesser  animal  and 
bird  among  the  Little  Folk  of  The  Place.  His  rule 
of  them  all  had  been  lofty  and  beneficent. 

The  other  dogs  at  The  Place  recognized  Lad's 
rulership — recognized  it  without  demur.  It  would 
no  more  have  occurred  to  any  of  them,  for  example, 
to  pass  in  or  out  through  a  doorway  ahead  of  Lad 
than  it  would  occur  to  a  courtier  to  shoulder  his 
way  into  the  throne-room  ahead  of  his  sovereign. 
Nor  would  one  of  them  intrude  on  the  "cave" 
under  the  living-room  piano  which  for  more  than 
a  decade  had  been  Lad's  favorite  resting-place. 

Great  was  Lad.    And  now  he  was  old — very  old. 

He  was  thirteen — which  is  equivalent  to  the 
human  age  of  seventy.  His  long,  clean  lines  had 
become  blurred  with  flesh.  He  was  undeniably 

321 


LAD:    A  DOG 

stout.  When  he  ran  fast,  he  rolled  slightly  in  his 
stride.  Nor  could  he  run  as  rapidly  or  as  long  as 
of  yore.  While  he  was  not  wheezy  or  asthmatic, 
yet  a  brisk  five-mile  walk  would  make  him  strangely 
anxious  for  an  hour's  rest. 

He  would  not  confess,  even  to  himself,  that  age 
was  beginning  to  hamper  him  so  cruelly.  And  he 
sought  to  do  all  the  things  he  had  once  done — 
if  the  Mistress  or  the  Master  were  looking.  But 
when  he  was  alone,  or  with  the  other  dogs,  he 
spared  himself  every  needless  step.  And  he  slept 
a  great  deal. 

Withal,  Lad's  was  a  hale  old  age.  His  spirit 
and  his  almost  uncanny  intelligence  had  not  fal- 
tered. Save  for  the  silvered  muzzle — first  outward 
sign  of  age  in  a  dog — his  face  and  head  were  as 
classically  young  as  ever.  So  were  the  absurdly 
small  fore-paws — his  one  gross  vanity — on  which 
he  spent  hours  of  care  each  day,  to  keep  them  clean 
and  snowy. 

He  would  still  dash  out  of  the  house  as  of  old 
— with  the  wild  trumpeting  bark  which  he  reserved 
as  greeting  to  his  two  deities  alone — when  the  Mis- 
tress or  the  Master  returned  home  after  an  absence. 
He  would  still  frisk  excitedly  around  either  of  them 
at  hint  of  a  romp.  But  the  exertion  was  an  exer- 
tion. And  despite  Lad's  valiant  efforts  at  youthful- 
ness,  everyone  could  see  it  was. 

No  longer  did  he  lead  the  other  dogs  in  their 
headlong  rushes  through  the  forest,  in  quest  of  rab- 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      323 

bits.  Since  he  could  not  now  keep  the  pace,  he 
let  the  others  go  on  these  breath-and-strength-taking 
excursions  without  him;  and  he  contented  himself 
with  an  occasional  lone  and  stately  walk  through 
the  woods  where  once  he  had  led  the  run — strolling 
along  in  leisurely  fashion,  with  the  benign  dignity 
of  some  plump  and  ruddy  old  squire  inspecting  his 
estate. 

There  had  been  many  dogs  at  The  Place  during 
the  thirteen  years  of  Lad's  reign — dogs  of  all  sorts 
and  conditions,  including  Lad's  worshiped  collie 
mate,  the  dainty  gold-and- white  "Lady."  But  in 
this  later  day  there  were  but  three  dogs  beside  him- 
self. 

One  of  them  was  Wolf,  the  only  surviving  son 
of  Lad  and  Lady — a  slender,  powerful  young  collie, 
with  some  of  his  sire's  brain  and  much  of  his 
mother's  appealing  grace — an  ideal  play-dog.  Be- 
tween Lad  and  Wolf  there  had  always  been  a  bond 
of  warmest  affection.  Lad  had  trained  this  son  of 
his  and  had  taught  him  all  he  knew.  He  unbent 
from  his  lofty  dignity,  with  Wolf,  as  with  none  of 
the  others. 

The  second  of  the  remaining  dogs  was  Bruce 
("Sunnybank  Goldsmith"),  tawny  as  Lad  himself, 
descendant  of  eleven  international  champions  and 
winner  of  many  a  ribbon  and  medal  and  cup.  Bruce 
was — and  is — flawless  in  physical  perfection  and  in 
obedience  and  intelligence. 

The  third  was  Rex — a  giant,  a  freak,  a  dog  oddly 


324  LAD:    A  DOG 

out  of  place  among  a  group  of  thoroughbreds.  On 
his  father's  side  Rex  was  pure  collie ;  on  his  mother's, 
pure  bull-terrier.  That  is  an  accidental  blending  of 
two  breeds  which  cannot  blend.  He  looked  more 
like  a  fawn-colored  Great  Dane  than  anything  else. 
He  was  short-haired,  full  two  inches  taller  and  ten 
pounds  heavier  than  Lad,  and  had  the  bunch- 
muscled  jaws  of  a  killer. 

There  was  not  an  outlander  dog  for  two  miles 
in  either  direction  that  Rex  had  not  at  one  time 
or  another  met  and  vanquished.  The  bull-terrier 
strain,  which  blended  so  ill  with  collie  blood,  made 
its  possessor  a  terrific  fighter.  He  was  swift  as  a 
deer,  strong  as  a  puma. 

In  many  ways  he  was  a  lovable  and  affectionate 
pet ;  slavishly  devoted  to  the  Master  and  grievously 
jealous  of  the  latter's  love  for  Lad.  Rex  was  five 
years  old — in  his  fullest  prime — and,  like  the  rest, 
he  had  ever  taken  Lad's  rulership  for  granted. 

I  have  written  at  perhaps  prosy  length,  introduc- 
ing these  characters  of  my  war-story.  The  rest  is 
action. 

March,  that  last  year,  was  a  month  of  drearily 
recurrent  snows.  In  the  forests  beyond  The  Place, 
the  snow  lay  light  and  fluffy  at  a  depth  of  sixteen 
inches. 

On  a  snowy,  blowy,  bitter  cold  Sunday — one  of 
those  days  nobody  wants — Rex  and  Wolf  elected  to 
go  rabbit-hunting. 

Bruce  was  not  in  the  hunt,  sensibly  preferring 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      S£5 

to  lie  in  front  of  the  living-room  fire  on  so  vile  a 
day  rather  than  to  flounder  through  dust-fine  drifts 
in  search  of  game  that  was  not  worth  chasing  under 
such  conditions.  Wolf,  too,  was  monstrous  com- 
fortable on  the  old  fur  rug  by  the  fire,  at  the  Mis- 
tress' feet. 

But  Rex,  who  had  waxed  oddly  restless  of  late, 
was  bored  by  the  indoor  afternoon.  The  Mistress 
was  reading ;  the  Master  was  asleep.  There  seemed 
no  chance  that  either  would  go  for  a  walk  or  other- 
wise amuse  their  four-footed  friends.  The  winter 
forests  were  calling.  The  powerful  crossbred  dog 
would  find  the  snow  a  scant  obstacle  to  his  hunting. 
And  the  warmly  quivering  body  of  a  new-caught 
rabbit  was  a  tremendous  lure. 

Rex  got  to  his  feet,  slouched  across  the  living- 
room  to  Bruce  and  touched  his  nose.  The  drowsing 
collie  paid  no  heed.  Next  Rex  moved  over  to 
where  Wolf  lay.  The  two  dogs'  noses  touched. 

Now,  this  is  no  Mowgili  tale,  but  a  true  narra- 
tive. I  do  not  pretend  to  say  whether  or  not  dogs 
have  a  language  of  their  own.  (Personally,  I  think 
they  have,  and  a  very  comprehensive  one,  too.  But 
I  cannot  prove  it.)  No  dog-student,  however,  will 
deny  that  two  dogs  communicate  their  wishes  to 
each  other  in  some  way  by  (or  during)  the  swift 
contact  of  noses. 

By  that  touch  Wolf  understood  Rex's  hint  to 
join  in  the  foray.  Wolf  was  not  yet  four  years  old 
—at  an  age  when  excitement  still  outweighs  lazy 


326  LAD:    A  DOG 

comfort.  Moreover,  he  admired  and  aped  Rex,  as 
much  as  ever  the  school's  littlest  boy  models  him- 
self on  the  class  bully.  He  was  up  at  once  and 
ready  to  start. 

A  maid  was  bringing  in  an  armful  of  wood  from 
the  veranda.  The  two  dogs  slipped  out  through 
the  half-open  door.  As  they  went,  Wolf  cast  a  side- 
long glance  at  Lad,  who  was  snoozing  under  the 
piano.  Lad  noted  the  careless  invitation.  He  also 
noted  that  Wolf  did  not  hesitate  when  his  father 
refused  to  join  the  outing  but  trotted  gayly  off  in 
Rex's  wake. 

Perhaps  this  defection  hurt  Lad's  abnormally  sen- 
sitive feelings.  For  of  old  he  had  always  led  such 
forest-runnings.  Perhaps  the  two  dogs'  departure 
merely  woke  in  him  the  memory  of  the  chase's  joys 
and  stirred  a  longing  for  the  snow-clogged  woods. 

For  a  minute  or  two  the  big  living-room  was 
quiet,  except  for  the  scratch  of  dry  snow  against 
the  panes,  the  slow  breathing  of  Bruce  and  the  turn- 
ing of  a  page  in  the  book  the  Mistress  was  reading. 
Then  Lad  get  up  heavily  and  walked  forth  from 
his  piano-cave. 

He  stretched  himself  and  crossed  to  the  Mistress* 
chair.  There  he  sat  down  on  the  rug  very  close 
beside  her  and  laid  one  of  his  ridiculously  tiny 
white  fore-paws  in  her  lap.  Absent-mindedly,  still 
absorbed  in  her  book,  she  put  out  a  hand  and  patted 
the  soft  fur  of  his  ruff  and  ears. 

Often,  Lad  came  to  her  or  to  the  Master  for 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      327 

some  such  caress ;  and,  receiving  it,  would  return  to 
his  resting-place.  But  to-day  he  was  seeking  to  at- 
tract her  notice  for  something  much  more  impor- 
tant. It  had  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  jolly 
to  go  with  her  for  a  tramp  in  the  snow.  And  his 
mere  presence  failing  to  convey  the  hint,  he  began, 
to  "talk." 

To  the  Mistress  and  the  Master  alone  did  Lad 
condescend  to  "talk" — and  then  only  in  moments  of 
stress  or  appeal.  No  one,  hearing  him,  at  such  a 
time,  could  doubt  the  dog  was  trying  to  frame 
human  speech.  His  vocal  efforts  ran  the  gamut 
of  the  entire  scale.  Wordless,  but  decidedly  elo- 
quent, this  "talking"  would  continue  sometimes  for 
several  minutes  without  ceasing;  its  tones  carried 
whatever  emotion  the  old  dog  sought  to  convey — 
whether  of  joy,  of  grief,  of  request  or  of  complaint. 

To-day  there  was  merely  playful  entreaty  in  the 
speechless  "speech."  The  Mistress  looked  up. 

"What  is  it,  Laddie?"  she  asked.  "What  do 
you  want?" 

For  answer  Lad  glanced  at  the  door,  then  at  the 
Mistress;  then  he  solemnly  went  out  into  the  hall 
— whence  presently  he  returned  with  one  of  her  fur 
gloves  in  his  mouth. 

"No,  no,"  she  laughed.  "Not  to-day,  Lad.  Not 
in  this  storm.  We'll  take  a  good,  long  walk  to- 
morrow." 

The  dog  sighed  and  returned  sadly  to  his  lair 
beneath  the  piano.  But  the  vision  of  the  forests 


328  LAD:    A  DOG 

was  evidently  hard  to  erase  from  his  mind.  And  a 
little  later,  when  the  front  door  was  open  again 
by  one  of  the  servants,  he  stalked  out. 

The  snow  was  driving  hard,  and  there  was  a 
sting  in  it.  The  thermometer  was  little  above  zero; 
but  the  snow  had  been  a  familiar  bedfellow,  for 
centuries,  to  Lad's  Scottish  forefathers;  and  the 
cold  was  harmless  against  the  woven  thickness  of 
his  tawny  coat.  Picking  his  way  in  stately  fashion 
along  the  ill-broken  track  of  the  driveway,  he 
strolled  toward  the  woods.  To  humans  there  was 
nothing  in  the  outdoor  day  but  snow  and  chill  and 
bluster  and  bitter  loneliness.  To  the  trained  eye 
and  the  miraculous  scent-power  of  a  collie  it  con- 
tained a  million  things  of  dramatic  interest. 

Here  a  rabbit  had  crossed  the  trail — not  with 
leisurely  bounds  or  mincing  hops,  but  stomach  to 
earth,  in  flight  for  very  life.  Here,  close  at  the  ter- 
rified bunny's  heels,  had  darted  a  red  fox.  Yonder, 
where  the  piling  snow  covered  a  swirl  of  tracks, 
the  chase  had  ended. 

The  little  ridge  of  snow-heaped  furrow,  to  the 
right,  held  a  basketful  of  cowering  quail — who 
heard  Lad's  slow  step  and  did  not  reckon  on  his 
flawless  gift  of  smell.  On  the  hemlock  tree  just 
ahead  a  hawk  had  lately  torn  a  blue- jay  asunder. 
A  fluff  of  gray  feathers  still  stuck  to  a  bough,  and 
the  scent  of  blood  had  not  been  blown  out  of  the 
air.  Underneath,  a  field-mouse  was  plowing  its 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      329 

way  into  the  frozen  earth,  its  tiny  paw-scrapes 
wholly  audible  to  the  ears  Of  the  dog  above  it. 

Here,  through  the  stark  and  drifted  undergrowth, 
Rex  and  Wolf  had  recently  swept  along  in  pursuit 
of  a  half -grown  rabbit.  Even  a  human  eye  could 
not  have  missed  their  partly-covered  tracks;  but 
Lad  knew  whose  track  was  whose  and  which  dog 
had  been  in  the  lead. 

Yes,  to  humans,  the  forest  would  have  seemed  a 
deserted  white  waste.  Lad  knew  it  was  thick-popu- 
lated with  the  Little  People  of  the  woodland,  and 
that  all  day  and  all  night  the  seemingly  empty  and 
placid  groves  were  a  blend  of  battlefield,  slaughter- 
house and  restaurant.  Here,  as  much  as  in  the 
cities  or  in  the  trenches,  abode  strenuous  life,  vio- 
lent death,  struggle,  greed  and  terror. 

A  partridge  rocketed  upward  through  a  clump 
of  evergreen,  while  a  weasel,  jaws  a-quiver,  glared 
after  it,  baffled.  A  shaggy  owl  crouched  at  a  tree- 
limb  hole  and  blinked  sulkily  about  in  search  of 
prey  and  in  hope  of  dusk.  A  crow,  its  black  feet 
red  with  a  slain  snowbird's  blood,  flapped  clumsily 
overhead.  A  poet  would  have  vowed  that  the  still 
and  white-shrouded  wilderness  was  a  shrine  sacred 
to  solitude  and  severe  peace.  Lad  could  have  told 
him  better.  Nature  (beneath  the  surface)  is  never 
solitary  and  never  at  peace. 

When  a  dog  is  very  old  and  very  heavy  and  a 
little  unwieldy,  it  is  hard  to  walk  through  sixteen- 
inch  snow,  even  if  one  moves  slowly  and  sedately. 


330  LAD:    A  DOG 

Hence  Lad  was  well  pleased  to  come  upon  a  narrow 
woodland  track ;  made  by  a  laborer  who  had  passed 
and  repassed  through  that  same  strip  of  forest  dur- 
ing the  last  few  hours.  To  follow  in  that  trampled 
rut  made  walking  much  easier;  it  was  a  rut  barely 
wide  enough  for  one  wayfarer. 

More  and  more  like  an  elderly  squire  patrolling 
his  acres,  Lad  rambled  along,  and  presently  his 
ears  and  his  nose  told  him  that  his  two  loving 
friends  Rex  and  Wolf  were  coming  toward  him 
on  their  home-bound  way.  His  plumy  tail  wagged 
expectantly.  He  was  growing  a  bit  lonely  on  this 
Sunday  afternoon  walk  of  his,  and  a  little  tired. 
It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  have  company — especially 
Wolfs. 

Rex  and  Wolf  had  fared  ill  on  their  hunt.  They 
had  put  up  two  rabbits.  One  had  doubled  and  com- 
pletely escaped  them ;  and  in  the  chase  Rex  had  cut 
his  foot  nastily  on  a  strip  of  unseen  barbed  wire. 
The  sandlike  snow  had  gotten  into  the  jagged  cut 
in  a  most  irritating  way. 

The  second  rabbit  had  dived  under  a  log.  Rex 
had  thrust  his  head  fiercely  through  a  snowbank 
in  quest  of  the  vanished  prey;  and  a  long  briar- 
thorn,  hidden  there,  had  plunged  its  needle  point 
deep  into  the  inside  of  his  left  nostril.  The  inner 
nostril  is  a  hundred-fold  the  most  agonizingly 
sensitive  part  of  a  dog's  body,  and  the  pain  wrung 
a  yell  of  rage  and  hurt  from  the  big  dog. 

With  a  nostril  and  a  foot  both  hurt,  there  was 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      331 

no  more  fun  in  hunting,  and — angry,  cross,  sav- 
agely in  pain — Rex  loped  homeward,  Wolf  patter- 
ing along  behind  him.  Like  Lad,  they  came  upon 
the  laborer's  trampled  path  and  took  advantage  of 
the  easier  going. 

Thus  it  was,  at  a  turn  in  the  track,  that  they 
came  face  to  face  with  Lad.  Wolf  had  already 
smelled  him,  and  his  brush  began  to  quiver  in  wel- 
come. Rex,  his  nose  in  anguish,  could  smell  noth- 
ing; not  until  that  turn  did  he  know  of  Lad's 
presence.  He  halted,  sulky,  and  ill-tempered.  The 
queer  restlessness,  the  pre-springtime  savagery 
that  had  obsessed  him  of  late-  had  been  brought  to 
a  head  by  his  hurts.  He  was  not  himself.  His 
mind  was  sick. 

There  was  not  room  for  two  large  dogs  to  pas* 
each  other  in  that  narrow  trail.  One  or  the  other 
must  flounder  out  into  the  deep  snow  to  the  side. 
Ordinarily,  there  would  be  no  question  about  any 
other  dog  on  The  Place  turning  out  for  Lad.  It 
would  have  been  a  matter  of  course,  and  so,  to-day, 
Lad  expected  it  to  be.  Onward  he  moved,  at  that 
same  dignified  walk,  until  he  was  not  a  yard  away 
from  Rex. 

The  latter,  his  brain  fevered  and  his  hurts  tor- 
turing him,  suddenly  flamed  into  rebellion.  Even 
as  a  younger  buck  sooner  or  later  assails  for 
mastery  the  leader  of  the  herd,  so  the  brain-sick 
Rex  went  back,  all  at  once,  to  primal  instincts,  a 


332  LAD:    A  DOG 

maniac  rage  mastered  him — the  rage  of  the  angry 
underlying,  the  primitive  lust  for  mastery. 

With  not  so  much  as  a  growl  or  warning,  he 
launched  himself  upon  Lad.  Straight  at  the  tired 
old  dog's  throat  he  flew.  Lad,  all  unprepared  for 
such  unheard-of  mutiny,  was  caught  clean  off  his 
guard.  He  had  not  even  time  enough  to  lower 
his  head  to  protect  his  throat  or  to  rear  and  meet 
his  erstwhile  subject's  attack  halfway.  At  one 
moment  he  had  been  plodding  gravely  toward  his 
two  supposedly  loyal  friends;  the  next,  Rex's 
ninety  pounds  of  whale-bone  muscle  had  smitten 
him  violently  to  earth,  and  Rex's  fearsome  jaws — 
capable  of  cracking  a  beef -bone  as  a  man  cracks  a 
filbert — had  found  a  vise-grip  in  the  soft  fur  of 
his  throat. 

Down  amid  a  flurry  of  high-tossed  snow,  crashed 
Lad,  his  snarling  enemy  upon  him,  pinning  him  to 
the  ground,  the  huge  jaws  tearing  and  rending  at 
his  ruff — the  silken  ruff  that  the  Mistress  daily 
combed  with  such  loving  care  to  keep  it  fluffy  and 
beautiful. 

It  was  a  grip  and  a  leverage  that  would  have 
made  the  average  opponent  helpless.  With  a  short- 
haired  dog  it  would  have  meant  the  end,  but  the 
providence  that  gave  collies  a  mattress  of  fur — to 
stave  off  the  cold,  in  their  herding  work  amid  the 
snowy  moors — has  made  that  fur  thickest  about  the 
lower  neck. 

Rex  had  struck  in  crazy  rage  and  had  not  gauged 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      333 

his  mark  as  truly  as  though  he  had  been  cooler.  He 
had  missed  the  jugular  and  found  himself  grinding 
at  an  enormous  mouthful  of  matted  hair — and  at 
very  little  else ;  and  Lad  belonged  to  the  breed  that 
is  never  to  be  taken  wholly  by  surprise  and  that  acts 
by  the  swiftest  instinct  or  reason  known  to  dog- 
dom.  Even  as  he  fell,  he  instinctively  threw  his 
body  sideways  to  avoid  the  full  jar  of  Rex's  im- 
pact— and  gathered  his  feet  under  him. 

With  a  heave  that  wrenched  his  every  unaccus- 
tomed muscle,  Lad  shook  off  the  living  weight  and 
scrambled  upright.  To  prevent  this,  Rex  threw 
his  entire  body  forward  to  reinforce  his  throat-grip. 
As  a  result,  a  double  handful  of  ruff-hair  and  a 
patch  of  skin  came  away  in  his  jaws.  And  Lad 
was  free. 

He  was  free — to  turn  tail  and  run  for  his  life 
from  the  unequal  combat — and  that  his  hero-heart 
would  not  let  him  do.  He  was  free,  also,  to  stand 
his  ground  and  fight  there  in  the  snowbound  forest 
until  he  should  be  slain  by  his  younger  and  larger 
and  stronger  foe,  and  this  folly  his  almost-human 
intelligence  would  not  permit. 

There  was  one  chance  and  only  one — one  com- 
promise alone  between  sanity  and  honor.  And  this 
chance  Lad  took. 

He  would  not  run.  He  could  not  save  his  life  by 
fighting  where  he  stood.  His  only  hope  was  to 
keep  his  face  to  his  enemy,  battling  as  best  he 
could,  and  all  the  time  keep  backing  toward  home. 


334  LAD:    A  DOG 

If  he  could  last  until  he  came  within  sight  or 
sound  of  the  folk  at  the  house,  he  knew  he  would 
be  saved.  Home  was  a  full  half-mile  away  and 
the  snow  was  almost  chest-deep.  Yet,  on  the  in- 
stant, he  laid  out  his  plain  of  campaign  and  put 
it  into  action. 

Rex  cleared  his  mouth  of  the  impeding  hair  and 
flew  at  Lad  once  more — before  the  old  dog  had 
fairly  gotten  to  his  feet,  but  not  before  the  line 
of  defense  had  been  thought  out.  Lad  half 
wheeled,  dodging  the  snapping  jaws  by  an  inch 
and  taking  the  impact  of  the  charge  on  his  left 
shoulder,  at  the  same  time  burying  his  teeth  in  the 
right  side  of  Rex's  face. 

At  the  same  time  Lad  gave  ground,  moving  back- 
ward three  or  four  yards,  helped  along  by  the 
impetus  of  his  opponent.  Home  was  a  half-mile 
behind  him,  in  an  oblique  line,  and  he  could  not 
turn  to  gauge  his  direction.  Yet  he  moved  in  pre- 
cisely the  correct  angle. 

(Indeed,  a  passer-by  who  witnessed  the  fight,  and 
the  Master,  who  went  carefully  over  the  ground 
afterward,  proved  that  at  no  point  in  the  battle 
did  Lad  swerve  or  mistake  his  exact  direction. 
Yet  not  once  could  he  have  been  able  to  look  around 
to  judge  it,  and  his  foot-prints  showed  that  not 
once  had  he  turned  his  back  on  the  foe.) 

The  hold  Lad  secured  on  Rex's  cheek  was  good, 
but  it  was  not  good  enough.  At  thirteen,  a  dog's 
"biting  teeth"  are  worn  short  and  dull,  and  his 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      335 

yellowed  fangs  are  blunted;  nor  is  the  jaw  by  any 
means  as  powerful  as  once  it  was.  Rex  writhed 
and  pitched  in  the  fierce  grip,  and  presently  tore 
free  from  it  and  to  the  attack  again,  seeking  now 
to  lunge  over  the  top  of  Lad's  lowered  head  to 
the  vital  spot  at  the  nape  of  the  neck,  where  sharp 
teeth  may  pierce  through  to  the  spinal  cord. 

Thrice  Rex  lunged,  and  thrice  Lad  reared  on  his 
hind  legs,  meeting  the  shock  with  his  deep,  shaggy 
breast,  snapping  arid  slashing  at  his  enemy  and 
every  time  receding  a  few  steps  between  charges. 
They  had  left  the  path  now,  and  were  plowing  a 
course  through  deep  snow.  The  snow  was  scant 
barrier  to  Rex's  full  strength,  but  it  terribly  im- 
peded the  steadily  backing  Lad.  Lad's  extra  flesh, 
too,  was  a  bad  handicap;  his  wind  was  not  at  all 
what  it  should  have  been,  and  the  unwonted  exer- 
tion began  to  tell  sharply  on  him. 

Under  the  lead-hued  skies  and  the  drive  of  the 
snow  the  fight  swirled  and  eddied.  The  great  dogs 
reared,  clashed,  tore,  battered  against  tree-trunks, 
lost  footing  and  rolled,  staggered  up  again  and  re- 
newed the  onslaught.  Ever  Lad  manceuvered  his 
way  backward,  waging  a  desperate  "rear-guard 
action."  In  the  battle's  wage  was  an  irregular  but 
mathematically  straight  line  of  trampled  and  blood- 
spattered  snow. 

Oh,  but  it  was  slow  going,  this  ever-fighting  re- 
treat of  Lad's,  through  the  deep  drifts,  with  his 
mightier  foe  pressing  him  and  rending  at  his  throat 


336  LAD:    A  DOG 

and  shoulders  at  every  backward  step!  The  old 
dog's  wind  was  gone ;  his  once-superb  strength  was 
going,  but  he  fought  on  with  blazing  fury — the 
fury  of  a  dying  king  who  will  not  be  deposed. 

In  sheer  skill  and  brain-work  and  generalship, 
Lad  was  wholly  Rex's  superior,  but  these  served 
him  ill  in  a  death-grapple.  With  dogs,  as  with 
human  pugilists,  mere  science  and  strategy  avail 
little  against  superior  size  and  strength  and  youth. 
Again  and  again  Lad  found  or  made  an  opening. 
Again  and  again  his  weakening  jaws  secured  the 
right  grip  only  to  be  shaken  off  with  more  and 
more  ease  by  the  younger  combatant. 

Again  and  again  Lad  "slashed"  as  do  his  wolf 
cousins  and  as  does  almost  no  civilized  dog  but 
the  collie.  But  the  slashes  had  lost  their  one-time 
lightning  speed  and  prowess.  And  the  blunt  "rend- 
ing fangs"  scored  only  superficial  furrows  in  Rex's 
fawn-colored  hide. 

There  was  meager  hope  of  reaching  home  alive. 
Lad  must  have  known  that.  His  strength  was 
gone.  It  was  his  heart  and  his  glorious  ancestry 
now  that  were  doing  his  fighting — not  his  fat  and 
age-depleted  body.  From  Lad's  mental  vocabulary 
the  word  quit  had  ever  been  absent.  Wherefore — 
dizzy,  gasping,  feebler  every  minute — he  battled 
fearlessly  on  in  the  dying  day;  never  losing  his 
sense  of  direction,  never  turning  tail,  never  dream- 
ing of  surrender,  taking  dire  wounds,  inflicting 
light  ones. 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      337 

There  are  many  forms  of  dog-fight.  Two 
strange  dogs,  meeting,  will  fly  at  each  other  because 
their  wild  forbears  used  to  do  so.  Jealous  dogs 
will  battle  even  more  fiercely.  But  the  deadliest 
of  all  canine  conflicts  is  the  "murder-fight."  This 
is  a  struggle  wherein  one  or  both  contestants  have 
decided  to  give  no  quarter,  where  the  victor  will 
fight  on  until  his  antagonist  is  dead  and  will  then 
tear  his  body  to  pieces.  It  is  a  recognized  form 
of  canine  mania. 

And  it  was  a  murder-fight  that  Rex  was  waging, 
for  he  had  gone  quite  insane.  (This  is  wholly  dif- 
ferent, by  the  way,  from  "going  mad/') 

Down  went  Lad,  for  perhaps  the  tenth  time,  and 
once  more — though  now  with  an  effort  that  was 
all  but  too  much  for  him — he  writhed  to  his  feet, 
gaining  three  yards  of  ground  by  the  move.  Rex 
was  upon  him  with  one  leap,  the  frothing  and 
bloody  jaws  striking  for  his  mangled  throat.  Lad 
reared  to  block  the  attack.  Then  suddenly,  over- 
balanced, he  crashed  backward  into  the  snowdrift. 

Rex  had  not  reached  him,  but  young  Wolf  had. 

Wolf  had  watched  the  battle  with  a  growing  ex- 
citement that  at  last  had  broken  all  bounds.  The 
instinct,  which  makes  a  fluff-headed  college-boy 
mix  into  a  scrimmage  that  is  no  concern  of  his, 
had  suddenly  possessed  Lad's  dearly  loved  son. 

Now,  if  this  were  a  fiction  yarn,  it  would  be 
edifying  to  tell  how  Wolf  sprang  to  the  aid  of 
his  grand  old  sire  and  how  he  thereby  saved  Lad's 


338  LAD:    A  DOG 

life.  But  the  shameful  truth  is  that  Wolf  did  noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  Rex  was  his  model,  the  bully  he 
had  so  long  and  so  enthusiastically  imitated.  And 
now  Rex  was  fighting  a  most  entertaining  bout, 
fighting  it  with  a  maniac  fury  that  infected  his 
young  disciple  and  made  him  yearn  to  share  in  the 
glory. 

Wherefore,  as  Lad  reared  to  meet  Rex's  lunge, 
Wolf  hurled  himself  like  a  furry  whirlwind  upon 
the  old  dog's  flank,  burying  his  white  teeth  in  the 
muscles  of  the  lower  leg. 

The  flank  attack  bowled  Lad  completely  over. 
There  was  no  chance  now  for  such  a  fall  as  would 
enable  him  to  spring  up  again  unscathed.  He  was 
thrown  heavily  upon  his  back,  and  both  his 
murderers  plunged  at  his  unguarded  throat  and 
lower  body. 

But  a  collie  thrown  is  not  a  collie  beaten,  as  per- 
haps I  have  said  once  before.  For  thirty  seconds 
or  more  the  three  thrashed  about  in  the  snow  in 
a  growling,  snarling,  right  unloving  embrace. 
Then,  by  some  miracle,  Lad  was  on  his  feet  again. 

His  throat  had  a  new  and  deep  wound,  perilously 
close  to  the  jugular.  His  stomach  and  left  side 
were  slashed  as  with  razor-blades.  But  he  was  up. 
And  even  in  that  moment  of  dire  stress — with  both 
dogs  flinging  themselves  upon  him  afresh — he 
gained  another  yard  or  two  in  his  line  of  retreat. 

He  might  have  gained  still  more  ground.  For 
his  assailants,  leaping  at  the  same  instant,  collided 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      339 

and  impeded  each  other's  charge.  But,  for  the 
first  time  the  wise  old  brain  clouded,  and  the  hero- 
heart  went  sick;  as  Lad  saw  his  own  loved  and 
spoiled  son  ranged  against  him  in  the  murder- fray. 
He  could  not  understand.  Loyalty  was  as  much 
a  part  of  himself  as  were  his  sorrowful  brown 
eyes  or  his  tiny  white  fore-paws.  And  Wolf's 
amazing  treachery  seemed  to  numb  the  old  war- 
rior, body  and  mind. 

But  the  second  of  dum founded  wonder  passed 
quickly — too  quickly  for  either  of  the  other  dogs 
to  take  advantage  of  it.  In  its  place  surged  a 
righteous  wrath  that,  for  the  instant,  brought  back 
youth  and  strength  to  the  aged  fighter. 

With  a  yell  that  echoed  far  through  the  forest's 
sinister  silence,  Lad  whizzed  forward  at  the  ad- 
vancing Rex.  Wolf,  who  was  nearer,  struck  for 
his  father's  throat — missed  and  rolled  in  the  snow 
from  the  force  of  his  own  momentum.  Lad  did 
not  heed  him.  Straight  for  Rex  he  leaped.  Rex, 
bounding  at  him,  was  already  in  midair.  The  two 
met,  and  under  the  Berserk  onset  Rex  fell  back 
into  the  snow. 

Lad  was  upon  him  at  once.  The  worn-down 
teeth  found  their  goal  above  the  jugular.  Deep 
and  raggedly  they  drove,  impelled  by  the  brief  flash 
of  power  that  upbore  their  owner. 

Almost  did  that  grip  end  the  fight  and  leave  Rex 
gasping  out  his  life  in  the  drift.  But  the  access 
of  false  strength  faded.  Rex,  roaring  like  a  hurt 


340  LAD:    A  DOG 

tiger,  twisted  and  tore  himself  free.  Lad  reali2ing 
his  own  bolt  was  shot,  gave  ground,  backing  away 
from  two  assailants  instead  of  one. 

It  was  easier  now  to  retreat.  For  Wolf,  un- 
skilled in  practical  warfare,  at  first  hindered  Rex 
almost  as  much  as  he  helped  him,  again  and  again 
getting  in  the  bigger  dog's  way  and  marring  a  rush. 
Had  Wolf  understood  "teamwork,"  Lad  must  have 
been  pulled  down  and  slaughtered  in  less  than  a 
minute. 

But  soon  Wolf  grasped  the  fact  that  he  could  do 
worse  damage  by  keeping  out  of  his  ally's  way 
and  attacking  from  a  different  quarter,  and  there- 
after he  fought  to  more  deadly  purpose.  His 
favorite  ruse  was  to  dive  for  Lad's  forelegs  and 
attempt  to  break  one  of  them.  That  is  a  collie 
manceuver  inherited  direct  from  Wolf's  namesake 
ancestors. 

Several  times  his  jaws  reached  the  slender  white 
forelegs,  cutting  and  slashing  them  and  throwing 
Lad  off  his  balance.  Once  he  found  a  hold  on  the 
left  haunch  and  held  it  until  his  victim  shook  loose 
by  rolling. 

Lad  defended  himself  from  this  new  foe  as  well 
as  he  might,  by  dodging  or  by  brushing  him  to  one 
side,  but  never  once  did  he  attack  Wolf,  or  so 
much  as  snap  at  him.  (Rex  after  the  encounter, 
was  plentifully  scarred.  Wolf  had  not  so  much  as  a 
scratch. ) 

Backward,    with   ever-increasing   difficulty,    the 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      341 

old  dog  fought  his  way,  often  borne  down  to  earth 
and  always  staggering  up  more  feebly  than  before. 
But  ever  he  was  warring  with  the  same  fierce 
courage;  despite  an  ache  and  bewilderment  in  his 
honest  heart  at  his  son's  treason. 

The  forest  lay  behind  the  fighters.  The  deserted 
highroad  was  passed.  Under  Lad's  clawing  and 
reeling  feet  was  the  dear  ground  of  The  Place — 
The  Place  where  for  thirteen  happy  years  he  had 
reigned  as  king,  where  he  had  benevolently  ruled 
his  kind  and  had  given  worshipful  service  to  his 
gods. 

But  the  house  was  still  nearly  a  furlong  off,  and 
Lad  was  well-nigh  dead.  His  body  was  one  mass 
of  wounds.  His  strength  was  turned  to  water. 
His  breath  was  gone.  His  bloodshot  eyes  were 
dim.  His  brain  was  dizzy  and  refused  its  office. 
Loss  of  blood  had  weakened  him  full  as  much  as 
had  the  tremendous  exertion  of  the  battle. 

Yet — uselessly  now — he  continued  to  fight.  It 
was  a  grotesquely  futile  resistance.  The  other  dogs 
were  all  over  him — tearing,  slashing,  gripping,  at 
will — unhindered  by  his  puny  effort  to  fend  them 
off.  The  slaughter-time  had  come.  Drunk  with 
blood  and  fury,  the  assailants  plunged  at  him  for 
the  last  time. 

Down  went  Lad,  helpless  beneath  the  murderous 
avalanche  that  overwhelmed  him.  And  this  time 
his  body  flatly  refused  to  obey  the  grim  command 
of  his  will.  The  fight  was  over — the  good,  good 


343  LAD:    A  DOG 

fight  of  a  white-souled  Paladin  against  hopeless 
odds. 

The  living-room  fire  crackled  cheerily.  The 
snow  hissed  and  slithered  against  the  glass.  A 
sheet  of  frost  on  every  pane  shut  out  the  stormy 
twilit  world.  The  screech  of  the  wind  was  music 
to  the  comfortable  shut-ins. 

The  Mistress  drowsed  over  her  book  by  the  fire. 
Bruce  snored  snugly  in  front  of  the  blaze.  The 
Master  had  awakened  from  his  nap  and  was  in  the 
adjoining  study,  sorting  fishing-tackle  and  scouring 
a  rusted  hunting-knife. 

Then  came  a  second's  lull  in  the  gale,  and  all  at 
once  Bruce  was  wide  awake.  Growling,  he  ran  to 
the  front  door  and  scratched  imperatively  at  the 
panel.  This  is  not  the  way  a  well-bred  dog  makes 
known  his  desire  to  leave  the  house.  And  Bruce 
was  decidedly  a  well-bred  dog. 

The  Mistress,  thinking  some  guest  might  be  ar- 
riving whose  scent  or  tread  displeased  the  collie, 
called  to  the  Master  to  shut  Bruce  in  the  study, 
lest  he  insult  the  supposed  visitor  by  barking.  Re- 
luctantly— very  reluctantly — Bruce  obeyed  the 
order.  The  Master  shut  the  study  door  behind 
him  and  came  into  the  living-room,  still  carrying 
the  half -cleaned  knife. 

As  no  summons  at  bell  or  knocker  followed 
Bruce's  announcement,  the  Mistress  opened  the 
front  door  and  looked  out.  The  dusk  was  falling, 
but  it  was  not  too  dark  for  her  to  have  seen  the 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      343 

approach  of  anyone,  nor  was  it  too  dark  for  the 
Mistress  to  see  two  dogs  tearing  at  something  that 
lay  hidden  from  her  view  in  the  deep  snow  a  hun- 
dred yards  away.  She  recognized  Rex  and  Wolf 
at  once  and  amusedly  wondered  with  what  they 
were  playing. 

Then  from  the  depth  of  snow  beneath  them  she 
saw  a  feeble  head  rear  itself — a  glorious  head, 
though  torn  and  bleeding — a  head  that  waveringly 
lunged  toward  Rex's  throat. 

'They're— they're  killing— Lad!"  she  cried  in 
stark,  unbelieving  horror.  Forgetful  of  thin  dress 
and  thinner  slippers,  she  ran  toward  the  trio. 
Halfway  to  the  battlefield  the  Master  passed  by 
her,  running  and  lurching  through  the  knee-high 
snow  at  something  like  record  speed. 

She  heard  his  shout.  And  at  sound  of  it  she 
saw  Wolf  slink  away  from  the  slaughter  like  a 
scared  schoolboy.  But  Rex  was  too  far  gone  in 
murder-lust  to  heed  the  shout.  The  Master  seized 
him  by  the  studded  collar  and  tossed  him  ten  feet 
or  more  to  one  side.  Rage-blind,  Rex  came  flying 
back  to  the  kill.  The  Master  stood  astride  his 
prey,  and  in  his  blind  mania  the  cross-breed  sprang 
at  the  man. 

The  Master's  hunting-knife  caught  him  squarely 
behind  the  left  fore-leg.  And  with  a  grunt  like  the 
sound  of  an  exhausted  soda-siphon,  the  huge  dog 
passed  out  of  this  story  and  out  of  life  as  well. 

There  would  be  ample  time,  later,  for  the  Master 


344  LAD:    A  DOG 

to  mourn  his  enforced  slaying  of  the  pet  dog  that 
had  loved  and  served  him  so  long.  At  present  he 
had  eyes  only  for  the  torn  and  senseless  body  of 
Lad  lying  huddled  in  the  red-blotched  snow. 

In  his  arms  he  lifted  Lad  and  carried  him 
tenderly  into  the  house.  There  the  Mistress'  light 
fingers  dressed  his  hideous  injuries.  Not  less  than 
thirty-six  deep  wounds  scored  the  worn-out  old 
body.  Several  of  these  were  past  the  skill  of  home 
treatment. 

A  grumbling  veterinary  was  summoned  on  the 
telephone  and  was  lured  by  pledge  of  a  triple  fee 
to  chug  through  ten  miles  of  storm  in  a  balky  car 
to  the  rescue. 

Lad  was  lying  with  his  head  in  the  Mistress'  lap. 
The  vet*  looked  the  unconscious  dog  over  and  then 
said  tersely: 

"I  wish  I'd  stayed  at  home.  He's  as  good  as 
dead/' 

"He's  a  million  times  better  than  dead,"  denied 
the  Master.  "I  know  Lad.  You  don't.  He's  got 
into  the  habit  of  living,  and  he's  not  going  to  break 
that  habit,  not  if  the  best  nursing  and  surgery  in 
the  State  can  keep  him  from  doing  it.  Get  busy !" 

"There's  nothing  to  keep  me  here/'  objected  the 
vet'.  "He's " 

"There's  everything  to  keep  you  here,"  gently 
contradicted  the  Master.  "You'll  stay  here  till 
Lad's  out  of  danger — if  I  have  to  steal  your 
trousers  and  your  car.  You're  going  to  cure  him. 


IN  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE      345 

And  if  you  do,  you  can  write  your  bill  on  a  Liberty 
Bond." 

Two  hours  later  Lad  opened  his  eyes.  He  was 
swathed  in  smelly  bandages  and  he  was  soaked  in 
liniments.  Patches  of  hair  had  been  shaved  away 
from  his  worst  wounds.  Digitalis  was  reinforcing 
his  faint  heart-action. 

He  looked  up  at  the  Mistress  with  his  only  avail- 
able eye.  By  a  herculean  struggle  he  wagged  his 
tail — just  once.  And  he  essayed  the  trumpeting 
bark  wherewith  he  always  welcomed  her  return 
after  an  absence.  The  bark  was  a  total  failure. 

After  which  Lad  tried  to  tell  the  Mistress  the 
story  of  the  battle.  Very  weakly,  but  very  per- 
sistently he  "talked."  His  tones  dropped  now  and 
then  to  the  shadow  of  a  ferocious  growl  as  he 
related  his  exploits  and  then  scaled  again  to  a 
puppy-like  whimper. 

He  had  done  a  grand  day's  work,  had  Lad,  and 
he  wanted  applause.  He  had  suffered  much  and  he 
was  still  in  racking  pain,  and  he  wanted  sympathy 

and  petting.     Presently  he  fell  asleep. 

****** 

It  was  two  weeks  before  Lad  could  stand  up- 
right, and  two  more  before  he  could  go  out  of 
doors  unhelped.  Then  on  a  warm,  early  spring 
morning,  the  vet*  declared  him  out  of  all  danger. 

Very  thin  was  the  invalid,  very  shaky,  snow- 
white  of  muzzle  and  with  the  air  of  an  old,  old 


346  LAD:    A  DOG 

man  whose  too-fragile  body  is  sustained  only  by 
a  regal  dignity.  But  he  was  alive. 

Slowly  he  marched  from  his  piano  cave  toward 
the  open  front  door.  Wolf — in  black  disgrace  for 
the  past  month — chanced  to  be  crossing  the  living- 
room  toward  the  veranda  at  the  same  time.  The 
two  dogs  reached  the  door-way  simultaneously. 

Very  respectfully,  almost  cringingly,  Wolf  stood 
aside  for  Lad  to  pass  out. 

His  sire  walked  by  with  never  a  look.  But  his 
step  was  all  at  once  stronger  and  springier,  and 
he  held  his  splendid  head  high. 

For  Lad  knew  he  was  still  king ! 


THE  END. 


AFTERWORD 

THE  stories  of  Lad,  in  various  magazines,  found 
unexpectedly  kind  welcome.  Letters  came  to  me 
from  soldiers  and  sailors  in  Europe,  from  hosts  of 
children;  from  men  and  women,  everywhere. 

Few  of  the  letter-writers  bothered  to  praise  the 
stories,  themselves.  But  all  of  them  praised  Lad, 
which  pleased  me  far  better.  And  more  than  a 
hundred  of  them  wanted  to  know  if  he  were  a  real 
dog :  and  if  the  tales  of  his  exploits  were  true. 

Perhaps  those  of  you  who  have  followed  Lad's 
adventures,  through  these  pages,  may  also  be  a 
little  interested  to  know  more  about  him. 

Yes,  Lad  was  a  "real"  dog — the  greatest  dog 
by  far,  I  have  known  or  shall  know.  And  the 
chief  happenings  in  nearly  all  of  my  Lad  stories 
are  absolutely  true.  This  accounts  for  such 
measure  of  success  as  the  stories  may  have  won. 

After  his  "Day  of  Battle,"  Lad  lived  for  more 
than  two  years — still  gallant  of  spirit,  loyally 
mighty  of  heart,  uncanny  of  wisdom — still  the  un- 
disputed king  of  The  Place's  "Little  People." 

Then,  on  a  warm  September  morning  in  1918, 
he  stretched  himself  to  sleep  in  the  coolest  and 
shadiest  corner  of  the  veranda,  And,  while  he 

347 


348  LAD:    A  DOG 

slept,  his  great  heart  very  quietly  stopped  beating. 
He  had  no  pain,  no  illness,  none  of  the  distressing 
features  of  extreme  age.  He  had  lived  out  a  full 
span  of  sixteen  years — years  rich  in  life  and  hap- 
piness and  love. 

Surely,  there  was  nothing  in  such  a  death  to  war- 
rant the  silly  grief  that  was  ours,  nor  the  heart- 
sick gloom  that  overhung  The  Place!  It  was 
wholly  illogical,  not  to  say  maudlin.  I  admit  that 
without  argument.  The  cleric-author  of  "The 
Mansion  Yard"  must  have  known  the  same  miser- 
able sense  of  loss,  I  think,  when  he  wrote: 

"  Stretched  on  the  hearthrug  in  a  deep  content, 

Fond  of  the  fire  as  I. 

Oh,  there  was  something  with  the  old  dog  went 
I  had  not  thought  could  die!" 

We  buried  Lad  in  a  sunlit  nook  that  had  been 
his  favorite  lounging  place,  close  to  the  house  he 
had  guarded  so  long  and  so  gallantly.  With  him 
we  buried  his  honorary  Red  Cross  and  Blue  Cross — 
awards  for  money  raised  in  his  name.  Above  his 
head  we  set  a  low  granite  block,  with  a  carven 
line  or  two  thereon. 

The  Mistress  wanted  the  block  inscribed :  'The 
Dearest  Dog!"  I  suggested:  "The  Dog  God 
Made."  But  we  decided  against  both  epitaphs. 
We  did  not  care  to  risk  making  our  dear  old  friend's 
memory  ridiculous  by  words  at  which  saner  folk 


AFTER-WORD 


349 


might  one  day  sneer.     So  on  the  granite  is  en- 
graved : 


LAD 

THOROUGHBRED  IN  BODY  AND  SOUL 


Some  people  are  wise  enough  to  know  that  a 
dog  has  no  soul.  These  will  find  ample  theme  for 
mirth  in  our  foolish  inscription.  But  no  one,  who 
knew  Lad,  will  laugh  at  it. 

ALBERT  PAYSON  TERHUNE. 
"Sunnybank" 
Pompton  Lakes, 
New  Jersey. 


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